University of California • Berkeley

From the Library of

Charles Erskine Scott Wood

and his Wife

Sara Bard Field

Given in Memory of

JAMES R.CALDWELL

POEMS FROM WORDSWORTH.

INDEX

Page

Michael ...... v

* My heart leaps up ' . . . . xx
' The cock is crowing ' . . » . xx

To a Sky-lark xxiii

The Sparrow's Nest .... xxiv

To the Cuckoo ..... xxiv

'O Nightingale, thou surely art' . . xxvi

The Danish Boy . . . . . xxvi

The Solitary Reaper .... xxviii

' Yes, it was the mountain echo ' . . xxix

* A whirl "blast from behind the hill ' . xxx
Stanzas w^ritten in Thomson's 'Castle

of Indolence' xxxi

'Nuns fret not' ..... xxxv

' Four fiery steeds ' .... xxxvi

' Wings have w^e ' . . . . . xxxvi

'Nor can I not believe but that hereby' xxxvii

' Most sweet it is ' . . . . . xxxvii

' Life with yon lambs ' . , . . xxxviii

' I wandered lonely as a cloud' . . xxxviii

To a Butterfly ..... xli

'This law^n, a carpet all alive' . . xlii

To the Small Celandine . . . xlii

To the same Flow^er .... xliv

The Green Linnet .... xlvi

To the Daisy ..... xlviii

To the same Flow^er .... 1
' How^ sw^eet it is, w^hen mother Fancy

rocks' ...... lii

' Intent on gathering wool ' . . . lii

Monastic Voluptuousness . . . liii

' The stars are mansions ' . . . liii

'"There!" said a stripling* .

Mary Queen of Scots, Landing

'The most alluring clouds that mount
the sky* .....

Inside of King's College Chapel, Cam-
bridge .....

'Lance, shield, and sword relinquished

'Unquiet childhood*

'Sole listener, Duddon*

Louisa ......

'Strange fits of passion have I known *

' She was a phantom of delight * .

' Methinks'tw^ereno unprecedented feat

' Three years she grew '

' She dwelt a-mong the untrodden ways

' A slumber did my spirit seal '

' I travelled among unknown men '

' Why art thou silent ^' ,

' Surprised by joy *

From the Italian of Michael Angelo

From the same ....

' I heard a thousand blended notes'

' She had a tall man*s height or more *

The Fountain ....

The two April Mornings

Expostulation and Reply

The Tables Turned

'If thou indeed derive thy light from
Heaven* .....

'There is a pleasure in poetic pains*

'A poet! — He hath put his heart to
school* .....

'High is our calling, friend!* .

liv

Iv

Iv

Ivi

Ivi

Ivii

Iviii

Iviii

lix

Ix

Ixi

Ixii

Ixiii

Ixiii

Ixiv

Ixiv

Ixv

Ixv

Ixvi

Ixix

Ixxi

Ixxiii

Ixxvi

Ixxvii

Ixxviii
Ixxix

bcxix
ixxx

On the Departure of Sir Walter Scott
' There was a boy '

Nutting

Influence of Natural Objects
Ode on Intimations of Immortality
To Hartley Coleridge — six years old
To a Highland Girl
Glen-Almain ....
Yarrow Unvisited
' It is the first mild day of March ' .
* Dear Child of Nature, let them rail ! '
' Inmate of a mountain^dw^elling' .
To Joanna .....
We are seven ....

Lucy Gray

Ruth

The Complaint of an Indian Woman

The Affliction of Margaret .

' I watch, and long have watched ' .

'Hail, Twilight!' .

'How clear, how keen '

' Dark and more dark ' .

' Those words were uttered as '

Sonnet Suggested by the "Phaedo" of

Plato

'The shepherd, looking eastward'

' "With ho'w sad steps, O moon " '

' Even as a dragon's eye'

' O Gentle Sleep ! '

'A flock of sheep that leisurely'

' Mcthought I saw the footsteps '

Hart- Leap Well .

' On his morning rounds the master'

Page

Ixxx

Ixxxi

Ixxxii

Ixxxiv

Ixxxvi

xcii

xciv

xcvi

xcvii

xcix

ci

cii

ciii

cvi

cviii

cxi

cxix

cxxi

cxxiv

cxxv

cxxv

cxxvi

cxxvi

cxxvii

cxxvii

cxxviii

cxxviii

cxxix

cxxix

cxxx

cxxx

cxxxvii

Fidelity

Resolution and Independence

' Scorn not the sonnet; Critic'

Composed upon Westminster Bridge

' Fair star of evening*

'When I have borne in memory what

has tamed* ....

'Mihon! thou should'st be living*
' Pure element of waters ! ' ,
Xo the Torrent at the Devil's Bridge
' It is not to be thought of that the flood*
'Another year! — ^another deadly blow^'
* Two voices are there ' .
'Once did she hold the gorgeous cast*
To Toussaint L'Ouvcrturc .

Mutability

' The world is too much with us * .
Song at the Feast of Brougham Castle
Ode to Lycoris ....

Character of the Happy Warrior .
Ode to Duty ....

Dion ......

'With ships the sea was sprinkled'

'Where lies the land' .

Composed by the Side of Grasmere

' It is a beauteous evening' .

' The stars are mansions '

' From the Italian of Michael Angelo '

' Tranquillity ! the sovereign aim ' .

' In my mind's eye a temple * .

Loud is the vale ! .

Lines on ' Peele Castle in a Storm *

A Poet's Epitaph ....

Page

cxxxviii

cxl

cxlvii

cxlviii

cxlviii

cxlix

cxlix

cl

cl

cli

clii

clii

cliii

cliii

cliv

cliv

civ

clx

clxii

clxv

clxix

clxxiii

clxxiv

clxxiv

clxxv

clxxv

clxxvi

clxxvi

clxxvii

clxxvii

clxxviii

clxxxi

MICHAEL.

Jl^lF from the public way you turn your steps

Up the tumuhuous brook of Green-head Ghyll,

You will suppose that with an upright path

Your feet must struggle ; in such bold ascent

The pastoral mountains front vou, face to face.

But, courage ! for around that feoisterous brook

The mountains have all opened out themselves,

And made a hidden valley of their own.

No habitation can be seen ; but they

Who journey thither find themselves alone

With a few sheep, with rocks and stones, and kites

That overhead are sailing in the sky.

It is in truth an utter solitude;

Nor should I have made mention of this dell

But for one object w^hich you might pass by.

Might see and notice not. Beside the brook

Appears a straggling heap of unhewn stones !

And to that place a story appertains

Which, though it be ungarnished w^ith events,

Is not unfit, I deem, for the fireside,

Or for the summer shade. It w^as the first

Of those domestic tales that spake to me

Of shepherds, dw^ellers in the valleys, men

Whom I already loved ; — not verily

For their ow^n sakes, but for the fields and hills

Where was their occupation and abode.

And hence this tale, while I was yet a boy

Careless of books, yet having felt the pow^er

Of nature, by the gentle agency

Of natural objects, led me on to feel

For passions that w^ere not my own, and think

(At random and imperfectly indeed)

On man, the heart of man, and human life.

Therefore, although it be a history
Homely and rude, I will relate the same
For the delight of a few natural hearts ;
And, with yet fonder feeling, for the sake
Of youthful poets, w^ho among these hills
Will be my second self when I am gone.

Upon the forest'-side in Grasmere Vale
There dw^elt a shepherd, Michael was his name;
An old man, stout of heart, and strong of limb.
His bodily frame had been from youth to age
Of an unusual strength : his mind w^as keen.
Intense, and frugal, apt for all affairs.
And in his shepherd's calling he w^as prompt
And w^atchful more than ordinary men.
Hence had he learned the meaning of all w^inds,
Of blasts of every tone ; and oftentimes.
When others heeded not, he heard the south
Make subterraneous music, like the noise
Of bagpipers on distant Highland hills.
The shepherd, at such w^arning, of his flock
Bethought him, and he to himself would say,
" The w^inds are now devising work for me!'
And, truly, at all times, the storm, that drives
The traveller to a shelter, summoned him
Up to the mountains : he had been alone
Amid the heart of many thousand mists.
That came to him, and left him, on the heights.
So lived he till his eightieth year w^as past.
And grossly that man errs, w^ho should suppose
That the green valleys, and the streams and rocks.
Were things indifferent to the shepherd's thoughts.
Fields, w^here with cheerful spirits he had breathed
The common air; the hills, w^hich he so oft
vi

Had climbed with vigorous steps ; which had

impressed

So many incidents upon his mind

Of hardship, skill or courage, joy or fear ;

Which, like a book, preserved the memory

Of the dumb animals, w^hom he had saved,

Had fed or sheltered, linking to such acts

The certainty of honourable gain ;

Those fields, those hills — what could they less ^

had laid

Strong hold on his affections, wrere to him

A pleasurable feeling of blind love,

The pleasure which there is in life itself.

His days had not been passed in singleness.

His helpmate w^as a comely matron, old —

Though younger than himself full twenty years.

She was a woman of a stirring life.

Whose heart w^as in her house : tw^o w^heels she had

Of antique form ; this large, for spinning w^ool ;

That small, for flax ; and, if one wrheel had rest,

It was because the other was at work.

The pair had but one inmate in their house,

An only child, who had been born to them

When Michael, telling o'er his years, began

To deem that he was old, — in shepherd's phrase,

With one foot in the grave. This only son.

With two brave sheep^-dogs tried in many a storm.

The one of an inestimable worth,

Made all their household. I may truly say.

That they w^ere as a proverb in the vale

For endless industry. When day w^as gone.

And from their occupations out of doors

The son and father were come home, even then,

vii

Their labour did not cease; unless when all
Turned to the cleanly suppers-board, and there,
Each with a mess of pottage and skimmed milk.
Sat round the basket piled w^ith oaten cakes.
And their plain home-made cheese. Yet w^hen the
meal

Was ended, Luke (for so the son was named)
And his old father both betook themselves
To such convenient work as might employ
Their hands by the fireside; perhaps to card
Wool for the housewife's spindle, or repair
Some injury done to sickle, flail, or scythe.
Or other implement of house or field.

Down from the ceiling, by the chimney's edge,

That in our ancient uncouth country style

With huge and black projection overbrow^cd

Large space beneath, as duly as the light

Of day grew dim the housew^ife hung a lamp;

An aged utensil, w^hich had performed

Service beyond all others of its kind.

Early at evening did it burn — and late.

Surviving comrade of uncounted hours.

Which, going by from year to year, had found,

And left, the couple neither gay perhaps

Nor cheerful, yet with objects and w^ith hopes.

Living a life of eager industry.

And now, when Luke had reached his eighteenth

year,

There by the light of this old lamp they sate.

Father and son, while far into the night

The housewife plied her own peculiar work.

Making the cottage through the silent hours

Murmur as w^ith the sound of summer flies.

viii

This light was famous in its neighbourhood,

And -was a public symbol of the life

That thrifty pair had lived. For, as it chanced,

Their cottage on a plot of rising ground

Stood single, with large prospect, north and south,

High into Easedale, up to Dunmail-Raise,

And westw^ard to the village near the lake;

And from this constant light, so regular,

And so far seen, the house itself, by all

Who dw^elt within the limits of the vale,

Both old and young, was named The Evening Star.

Thus living on through such a length of years.
The shepherd, if he loved himself, must needs
Have loved his helpmate ; but to Michael's heart
This son of his old age w^as yet more dear —
Less from instinctive tenderness, the same
Blind spirit which is in the blood of all —
Than that a child, more than all other gifts
Brings hope w^ith it, and forw^ard'-looking thoughts,
And stirrings of inquietude, w^hen they
By tendency of nature needs must fail.
Exceeding w^as the love he bare to him.
His heart and his heart's joy! For oftentimes
Old Michael, w^hile he w^as a babe in arms,
Had done him female service, not alone
For pastime and delight, as is the use
Of fathers, but w^ith patient mind enforced
To acts of tenderness ; and he had rocked
His cradle w^ith a woman's gentle hand.

And in a later time, ere yet the boy

Had put on boy's attire, did Michael love.

Albeit of a stern unbending mind

ix

To have the young'-one in his sight, when he
Had work by his own door, or w^hen he sat
With sheep before him on his shepherd's stool,
Beneath that large old oak, which near the door
Stood, — and from its enormous breadth of shade,
Chosen for the shearer's covert from the sun,
Xhence in our rustic dialect was called
The Clipping Tree, a name \yhich yet it bears.
There, while they two were sitting in the shade,
With others round them, earnest all and blithe,
Would Michael exercise his heart with looks
Of fond correction and reproof bestowed
Upon the child, if he disturbed the sheep
By catching at their legs, or with his shouts
Scared them, w^hile they lay still beneath the shears.

And when by Heaven's good grace the boy grew up

A healthy lad, and carried in his cheek

Two steady roses that were five years old;

Then Michael from a winter coppice cut

With his own hand a sapling, which he hooped

With iron, making it throughout in all

Due requisites a perfect shepherd's staff.

And gave it to the boy; w^herewith equipt

He as a watchman oftentimes w^as placed

At gate or gap, to stem or turn the flock;

And, to his office prematurely called.

There stood the urchin, as you will divine,

Something between a hindrance and a help ;

And for this cause not alw^ays, I believe,

Receiving from his father hire of praise;

Though nought was left undone which staff, or

voice,

Or looks, or threatening gestures, could perform.

But soon as Luke, full ten years old, could stand
Against the mountain blasts ; and to the heights,
Not fearing toil, nor length of weary "ways.
He with his father daily w^ent, and they
Were as companions, why should I relate
That objects which the shepherd loved before
Were dearer now ^ that from the boy there came
Feelings and emanations — things w^hich were
Light to the sun and music to the wind ;
And that the old man's heart seemed born again ^

Thus in his father's sight the boy grew up :

And now, when he had reached his eighteenth year,

He was his comfort and his daily hope.

While in this sort the simple household lived

From day to day, to Michael's ear there came

Distressful tidings. Long before the time

Of which I speak, the shepherd had been bound

In surety for his brother's son, a man

Of an industrious life, and ample means ;

But unforeseen misfortunes suddenly

Had prest upon him ; and old Michael now

Was summoned to discharge the forfeiture,

A grievous penalty, but little less

Than half his substance. This unlooked-for claim,

At the first hearing, for a moment took

More hope out of his life than he supposed

That any old man ever could have lost.

As soon as he had gathered so much strength

That he could look his trouble in the face.

It seemed that his sole refuge was to sell

A portion of his patrimonial fields.

Such was his first resolve; he thought again,

xi b

And his heart failed him. " Isabel," said he,
Two evenings after he had heard the news,
" I have been toiling more than seventy years,
And in the open sunshine of God's love
Have w^e all lived ; yet, if these fields of ours
Should pass into a stranger's hand, I think
That I could not lie quiet in my grave.
Our lot is a hard lot ; the sun himself
Has scarcely been more diligent than I ;
And I have lived to be a fool at last
Xo my own family. An evil man
That w^as, and made an evil choice, if he
Were false to us; and, if he w^ere not false.
There are ten thousand to w^hom loss like this
Had been no sorrow. I forgive him; — but
'Tw^ere better to be dumb than to talk thus.

''When I began, my purpose was to speak
Of remedies and of a cheerful hope.
Our Luke shall leave us, Isabel; the land
Shall not go from us, and it shall be free;
He shall possess it, free as is the wind
That passes over it. We have, thou know'st.
Another kinsman — he will be our friend
In this distress. He is a prosperous man.
Thriving in trade — and Luke to him shall go.
And with his kinsman's help and his own thrift
He quickly will repair this loss, and then
May come again to us. If here he stay,
What can be done ^ Where every one is poor.
What can be gained .'"'

At this the old man paused,
And Isabel sat silent, for her mind
Was busy, looking back into past times.
xii

There's Richard Bateman, thought she to herself,
He was a parish-boy — at the church-door
TThey made a gathering for him, shillings, pence,
And halfpennies, -wherewith the neighbours bought
A basket, w^hich they filled with pedlar's w^ares ;
And, with this basket on his arm, the lad
Went up to London, found a master there.
Who, out of many, chose the trusty boy
To go and overlook his merchandise
Beyond the seas ; w^here he grew w^ondrous rich.
And left estates and monies to the poor.
And, at his birth-place, built a chapel floored
With marble, which he sent from foreign lands.
These thoughts, and many others of like sort.
Passed quickly through the mind of Isabel,
And her face brightened. The old man w^as glad.
And thus resumed: — "Well, Isabel! this scheme
These two days has been meat and drink to me.
Far more than we have lost is left us yet.
We have enough — I w^ish indeed that I
Were younger ; — but this hope is a good hope.
Make ready Luke's best garments, of the best
Buy for him more, and let us send him forth
To-morrow, or the next day, or to-night;
If he could go, the boy should go to-night."
Here Michael ceased, and to the fields went forth
With a light heart. The housewife for five days
Was restless morn and night, and all day long
Wrought on with her best fingers to prepare
Things needful for the journey of her son.
But Isabel was glad when Sunday came
To stop her in her work : for, when she lay
By Michael's side, she through the two last nights
Heard him, how^ he w^as troubled in his sleep :
xiii

And "when they rose at morning she could see
That all his hopes were gone. That day at noon
She said to Luke, while they tw^o by themselves
Were sitting at the door, "Thou must not go:
We have no other child but thee to lose,
None to remember — do not go away.
For if thou leave thy father he w^ill die,'*
The lad made answer w^ith a jocund voice ;
And Isabel, w^hen she had told her fears,
Recovered heart. That evening her best fare
Did she bring forth, and all together sat
Like happy people round a Christmas fire.

With daylight Isabel resumed her work;
And all the ensuing week the house appeared
As cheerful as a grove in spring : at length
The expected letter from their kinsman came,
With kind assurances that he w^ould do
His utmost for the welfare of the boy;
To which, requests were added, that forthw^ith
He might be sent to him. Ten times or more
The letter was read over ; Isabel
Went forth to show^ it to the neighbours round;
Nor w^as there at that time on English land
A prouder heart than Luke's. When Isabel
Had to her house returned, the old man said,
" He shall depart to-morrow." To this word
The housew^ife answ^ered, talking much of things
Which, if at such short notice he should go.
Would surely be forgotten. But at length
She gave consent, and Michael was at ease.

Near the tumultuous brook of Greenhead Ghyll,
In that deep valley, Michael had designed
xiv

To build a shccp-foId; and, before he heard

The tidings of his melancholy loss,

For this same purpose he had gathered up

A heap of stones, which by the streamlet's edge

Lay thrown together, ready for the work.

With Luke that evening thitherw^ard he w^alked :

And soon as they had reached the place he stopped

And thus the old Man spake to him: — "My son,

To'-morrow thou wilt leave me: w^ith full heart

I look upon thee, for thou art the same

That wert a promise to me ere thy birth,

And all thy life hast been my daily joy.

I will relate to thee some little part

Of our two histories ; 'twill do thee good

When thou art from me, even if I should speak

Of things thou canst not know of. — After thou

First cam'st into the w^orld — as oft befalls

To new'-born infants — thou didst sleep away

Two days, and blessings from thy father's tongue

Then fell upon thee. Day by day passed on,

And still I loved thee with increasing love.

Never to living ear came sweeter sounds

Than when I heard thee by our own fireside

First uttering, w^ithout words, a natural tune;

While thou, a feeding babe, didst in thy joy

Sing at thy mother's breast. Month followed i '

month.

And in the open fields my life was passed

And on the mountains; else I think that thou

Hadst been brought up upon thy father's knees.

But we w^ere playmates, Luke : among these hills,

As w^ell thou knowest, in us the old and young

Have played together, nor with me didst thou

Lack any pleasure which a boy can know."

XV

Luke had a manly heart ; but at these words

He sobbed aloud. The old man grasped his hand,

And said, " Nay, do not take it so — I see

That these are things of which I need not speak.

— Even to the utmost I have been to thee

A kind and a good father : and herein

I but repay a gift which I myself

Received at others' hands ; for, though now old

Beyond the common life of man, I still

Remember them who loved me in my youth.

Both of them sleep together: here they lived,

As all their forefathers had done ; and, when

At length their time w^as come, they w^ere not loth

Xo give their bodies to the family mould.

I w^ished that thou shouldst live the life they lived.

But 'tis a long time to look back, my son.

And see so little gain from threescore years.

These fields were burthened w^hen they came to me ;

Till I was forty years of age, not more

Than half of my inheritance was mine.

I toiled and toiled; God blessed me in my w^ork,

And till these three weeks past the land w^as free.

— It looks as if it never could endure

Another master. Heaven forgive me, Luke,

If I judge ill for thee, but it seems good

That thou shouldst go."

At this the old man paused;
Then, pointing to the stones near which they stood,
Thus, after a short silence, he resumed:
" This was a work for us ; and now, my son.
It is a work for me. But, lay one stone —
Here, lay it for me, Luke, w^ith thine ow^n hands.
Nay, boy, be of good hope ; — w^e both may live
To see a better day. At eighty --four
xvi

I still am strong and hale ; — do thou thy part ;

I will do mine. — I "will begin again

With many tasks that were resigned to thee :

Up to the heights, and in among the storms,

Will I without thee go again, and do

All works which I was wont to do alone,

Before I knew thy face. — Heaven bless thee, boy !

Thy heart these two weeks has been beating fast

With many hopes ; it should be so — Yes — yes —

I knew that thou couldst never have a wish

Xo leave me, Luke : thou hast been bound to me

Only by links of love : when thou art gone,

What will be left to us ! — But I forget

My purposes. Lay now the corner-stone.

As I requested ; and hereafter, Luke,

When thou art gone away, should evil men

Be thy companions, think of me, my son.

And of this moment ; hither turn thy thoughts.

And God will strengthen thee : amid all fear

And all temptation, Luke, I pray that thou

May'st bear in mind the life thy fathers lived,

Who, being innocent, did for that cause

Bestir them in good deeds. Now, fare thee well —

When thou return'st, thou in this place wilt see

A work which is not here : a covenant

'Twill be between us. . . . But, w^hatever fate

Befall thee, I shall love thee to the last.

And bear thy memory w^ith me to the grave."

The shepherd ended here ; and Luke stooped down.

And, as his father had requested, laid

The first stone of the sheep-fold. At the sight

The old man's grief broke from him ; to his heart

He pressed his son, he kissed him and w^ept;

xvii

And to the house together they returned.

— Hushed was that house in peace, or seeming

peace,

Ere the night fell: — with morrow's dawn the boy

Began his journey, and, when he had reached

The public way, he put on a bold face ;

And all the neighbours, as he passed their doors.

Came forth w^ith w^ishes and w^ith farew^ell prayers,

That foUow^ed him till he w^as out of sight.

A good report did from their kinsman come.
Of Luke and his well-doing : and the boy
Wrote loving letters, full of wondrous news.
Which, as the housewife phrased it, w^ere
throughout

"The prettiest letters that were ever seen."
Both parents read them with rejoicing hearts.
So, many months passed on: and once again
The shepherd went about his daily work
With confident and cheerful thoughts ; and now
Sometimes when he could find a leisure hour
He to that valley took his way, and there
Wrought at the sheep^-fold. Meantime Luke began
To slacken in his duty ; and, at length.
He in the dissolute city gave himself
To evil courses : ignominy and shame
Fell on him, so that he was driven at last
To seek a hiding'-place beyond the seas.

There is a comfort in the strength of love ;
'Twill make a thing endurable, which else
Would overset the brain, or break the heart :
I have conversed with more than one who well
Remember the old man, and w^hat he w^as
xviii

Years after he had heard this heavy ne>vs.'
His bodily frame had been from youth to age
Of an unusual strength. Among the rocks
He went, and still looked up towards the sun,
And listened to the w^ind ; and, as before.
Performed all kinds of labour for his sheep,
And for the land, his small inheritance.
And to that hollow dell from time to time
Did he repair, to build the fold of w^hich
His flock had need. 'Tis not forgotten yet
The pity w^hich was then in every heart
For the old man — and 'tis believed by all
That many and many a day he thither went,
And never lifted up a single stone.

There, by the sheep'-fold, sometimes was he seen

Sitting alone, or with his faithful dog.

Then old, beside him, lying at his feet.

The length of full seven years, from time to time,

He at the building of this sheep-fold w^rought,

And left the work unfinished w^hcn he died.

Three years, or little more, did Isabel

Survive her husband : at her death the estate

Was sold, and went into a stranger's hand.

The cottage wrhich w^as named the Evening Star

Is gone — the ploughshare has been through the

ground

On which it stood ; great changes have beenwrought

In all the neighbourhood: — yet the oak is left

That grew beside their door; and the remains

Of the unfinished sheep-fold may be seen

Beside the boisterous brook of Greenhead Ghyll.

XIX

JfiMY heart leaps up when I behold

A rainbow in the sky :

So was it w^hen my life began;

So is it now I am a man ;

So be it when I shall grow old,

Or let me die !

The child is father of the man ;

And I could wish my days to be

Bound each to each by natural piety.

WRITTEN IN MARCH, WHILE REST-
ING ON THE BRIDGE AT THE FOOT
OF BROTHER'S V\(ATER.
j^THE cock is crow^ing,
The stream is flowing.
The small birds twitter,
The lake doth glitter.
The green field sleeps in the sun ;
The oldest and youngest
Are at work w^ith the strongest ;
The cattle are grazing,
Their heads never raising;
There are forty feeding like one!

Like an army defeated

The snow hath retreated.

And now^ doth fare ill

On the top of the bare hill;

The ploughboy is w^hooping — anon — anon :

There's joy in the mountains ;

There's life in the fountains;

Small clouds are sailing.

Blue sky prevailing;

The rain is over and gone !

XX

MY heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky

TO A SKY^LARK.

J|8UP with me ! up writh mc into the clouds

Fof thy song, lark, is strong ;

Up with mc, up w^ith mc into the clouds!

Singina, singing.

With clouds and sky about thee ringing,

Lift mc, auidc mc, till I find

That spot which seems so to thy mind!

I have w^alkcd through wildernesses dreary,

And tO'-day my heart is weary;

Had I now the wings of a faery.

Up to thee would I fly.

There is madness about thee, and joy divine

In that song of thine;

Up with me, up with me, high and high

To thy banqueting-place in the sky.

Joyous as morning,

Thou art laughing and scorning;

Thou hast a nest for thy love and thy rest,

And, though little troubled w^ith sloth,

Drunken lark ! thou w^ould'st be loth

To be such a traveller as I.

Happy, happy liver,

With a soul as strong as a mountain river

Pouring out praise to the almighty Giver,

Joy and jollity be w^ith us both !

Alas ! my journey, rugged and uneven.

Through prickly moors or dusty ways must

wind

But hearing thee, or others of thy kind,

As full of gladness and as free of heaven,

xxiii

I, with my fate contented, will plod on,

And hope for higher raptures, w^hen life's day is

done.

THE SPARROW'S NEST.

jj^ BE HOLD, within the leafy shade.

Those bright blue eggs togetner laid!

On me the chance-discovered sight

Gleamed like a vision of delight.

I started — seeming to espy

The home and sheltered bed,

The sparrow's dwelling, w^hich, hard by

My father's house, in wet or dry

My sister Emmeline and I

Together visited.

She looked at it and seemed to fear it;
Dreading, tho* w^ishing, to be near it :
Such heart w^as in her, being then
A little prattler among men.
The blessing of my later years
Was with me when a boy :
She gave me eyes, she gave me ears;
And humble cares, and delicate fears
A heart, the fountain of sw^eet tears;
And love, and thought, and joy.

TO THE CUCKOO.

J^O blithe new-comer! I have heard,

I hear thee and rejoice.

O cuckoo! shall I call thee bird.

Or but a w^andering voice i^

xxiv

While I am lying on the grass
Thy twofold shout I hear;
From hill to hill it seems to pass
At once far off, and near.

Though babbling only to the vale,
Of sunshine and of flowers.
Thou bringest unto me a tale
Of visionary hours.

Thrice w^elcomc, darling of the spring!

Even yet thou art to me

No bird, but an invisible thing,

A voice, a mystery;

The same w^hom in my schooUboy days
I listened to ; that cry
Which made me look a thousand ways
In bush, and tree, and sky.

To seek thee did I often rove
Through w^oods and on the green;
And thou w^ert still a hope, a love;
Still longed for, never seen.

And I can listen to thee yet ;
Can lie upon the plain
And listen, till I do beget
That golden time again.

O blessed bird! the earth we pace
Again appears to be
An unsubstantial, faery place;
That is fit home for thee !

XXV

J^O NIGHTINGALE, thou surely art

A creature of a " fiery heart " : —

These notes of thine — they pierce and pierce ;

Tumuhuous harmony and fierce !

Thou sing'st as if the god of wine

Had helped thee to a valentine ;

A song in mockery and despite

Of shades, and dews, and silent night ;

And steady bliss, and all the loves

Now^ sleeping in those peaceful groves.

I heard a stock --dove sing or say

His homely tale, this very day;

His voice w^as buried among trees,

Yet to be comC'-at by the breeze:

He did not cease; but cooed — and cooed;

And somewhat pensively he w^ooed :

He sang of love, w^ith quiet blending,

Slow^ to begin, and never ending;

Of serious faith, and inw^ard glee;

That w^as the song — the song for me!

THE DANISH BOY.— A FRAGMENT.

Jdl BETWEEN two sister moorland rills

There is a spot that seems to lie

Sacred to flow^erets of the hills,

And sacred to the sky.

And in this smooth and open dell

There is a tempest-- stricken tree;

A corner'-stone by lightning cut,

The last stone of a lonely hut ;

And in this dell you sec

xxvi

A thing no storm can e'er destroy,
The shadovsr of a Danish boy.

In clouds above, the lark is heard.
But drops not here to earth for rest;
Within this lonesome nook the bird
Did never build her nest.
No beast, no bird, hath here his home ;
Bees, wafted on the breezy air,
Pass high above those fragrant bells
To other flowers : — to other dells
Their burdens do they bear;
The Danish boy w^alks here alone:
The lovely dell is all his ow^n.

A spirit of noon'-day is he;

Yet seems a form of flesh and blood;

Nor piping shepherd shall he be,

Nor herd-boy of the w^ood.

A regal vest of fur he wears.

In colour like a raven's wing;

It fears not rain, nor wind, nor dew ;

But in the storm 'tis fresh and blue

As budding pines in spring;

His helmet has a vernal grace.

Fresh as the bloom upon his face.

A harp is from his shoulder slung;
Resting the harp upon his knee.
To words of a forgotten tongue
He suits its melody.
Of flocks upon the neighbouring hill
He is the darling and the joy;
And often, w^hen no cause appears,
xxvii

The mountaiti'-ponics prick their ears,
— They hear the Danish boy,
While in the dell he sings alone
Beside the tree and corner-- stone.

There sits he ; in his face you spy

No trace of a ferocious air,

Nor ever was a cloudless sky

So steady or so fair.

The lovely Danish boy is blest

And happy in his flowery cove:

From bloody deeds his thoughts are far;

And yet he warbles songs of war.

That seem like songs of love.

For calm and gentle is his mien ;

Like a dead boy he is serene.

THE SOLITARY REAPER.
^BEHOLD her, single in the field.
Yon solitary highland lass;
Reaping and singing by herself;
Stop here, or gently pass !
Alone she cuts and binds the grain.
And sings a melancholy strain ;
O listen ! for the vale profound
Is overflowing w^ith the sound.

No nightingale did ever chaunt

So sw^eetly to reposing bands

Of travellers in some shady haunt,

Among Arabian sands :

A voice so thrilling ne'er w^as heard

In spring-time from the cuckoo-bird,

xxviii

Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.

Will no one tell mc what she sings ^—
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago :
Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of to-day r'
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain.
That has been, and may be again ^

Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending;
I saw her singing at her work,
And o'er the sickle bending; —
I listened till I had my fill,
And, as I mounted up the hill,
The music in my heart I bore.
Long after it was heard no more.

J|i YES, it was the mountain echo.
Solitary, clear, profound,
Answ^ering to the shouting cuckoo.
Giving to her sound for sound !

Unsolicited reply

To a babbling wanderer sent ;

Like her ordinary cry,

Like — but oh, how^ different !

Hears not also mortal life.'^

Hear not we, unthinking creatures !

xxix d

Slaves of folly, love, or strife — •
Voices of two differetit natures ^

Have not we too ^ — yes, we have
Answers, and we know not whence;
Echoes from beyond the grave,
Recognised intelligence !

Often as thy inward ear
Catches such rebounds, bew^are ! —
Listen, ponder, hold them dear ;
For of God, — of God they arc.

^^ A WHIRL^BLAST from behind the hill

Rushed o'er the wood with startling sound;

Xhen — all at once the air was still.

And show^ers of hailstones pattered round.

Where leafless oaks towered high above,

I sat w^ithin an undergrove

Of tallest hollies, tall and green;

A fairer bower was never seen.

From year to year the spacious floor

With w^ithered leaves is covered o'er,

And all the year the bower is green.

But see ! w^here'er the hailstones drop

The w^ithered leaves all skip and hop;

There 's not a breeze — no breath of air —

Yet here, and there, and every where

Along the floor, beneath the shade

By those embowering hollies made.

The leaves in myriads jump and spring,

As if w^ith pipes and music rare

Some Robin Good'-fellow^ were there,

XXX

And all those leaves in festive glee,
Were dancing to the minstrelsy.

STANZAS WRITTEN IN MY POCKET-
COPY OF THOMSON'S " CASTLE OF
INDOLENCE."

Jul WITHIN our happy castle there dwelt one
Whom without blame I may not overlook ;
For never sun on living creature shone
Who more devout enjoyment with us took:
Here on his hours he hung as on a book,
On his own time here would he float away
As doth a fly upon a summer brook ;
But go to-morrow, or belike to-day.
Seek for him, — he is fled; and whither none can say.

Thus often would he leave our peaceful home,

And find elsewhere his business or delight ;

Out of our valley's limits did he roam :

Full many a time, upon a stormy night,

His voice came to us from the neighbouring height :

Oft could we see him driving full in view

At mid-day when the sun was shining bright;

What ill was on him, what he had to do,

A mighty wonder bred among our quiet crew.

Ah ! piteous sight it was to see this man

When he came back to us, a withered flow^er, —

Or like a sinful creature, pale and wan.

Down w^ould he sit ; and without strength or power

Look at the common grass from hour to hour :

And oftentimes, how long I fear to say.

Where apple-trees in blossom made a bow^er,

xxxi

Retired in that sunshiny shade he lay;

And, like a naked Indian, slept himself away.

Great wonder to our gentle tribe it was

Whenever from our valley he withdrew;

For happier soul no living creature has

Than he had, being here the long day through.

Some thought he w^as a lover, and did woo :

Some thought far w^orse of him, and judged him

wrong;

But verse was what he had been w^edded to ;

And his own mind did like a tempest strong

Come to him thus, and drove the w^eary wight

along.

With him there often walked in friendly guise,
Or lay upon the moss by brook or tree,
A noticeable man with large grey eyes,
And a pale face that seemed undoubtedly
As if a blooming face it ought to be;
Heavy his low'-hung lip did oft appear.
Depressed by weight of musing phantasy;
Profound his forehead was, though not severe ;
Yet some did think that he had little business here :

Sw^eet heaven forefend! his was a law^ful right;

Noisy he w^as, and gamesome as a boy;

His limbs w^ould toss about him with delight,

Like branches w^hen strong winds the trees annoy.

Nor lacked his calmer hours device or toy

To banish listlessness and irksome care;

Hew^ould have taught youhow^ you might employ

Yourself; and many did to him repair, —

And certes not in vain ; he had inventions rare.

xxxii

NUNS ffct not at their convent's narrow
room

1

^^MMHvr

pimiii

■■■Rr.^

' v:

l|Pjt|

H

'' '

, ..'^M*

M

mm

0

- -=«^

kr.&=.-^;fif

m

HiM^^-

Expedients, too, of simplest sort he tried:

Long blades of grass, plucked round him as he lay,

Made, to his ear attentively applied,

A pipe on which the wind w^ould deftly play ;

Glasses he had, that little things display.

The beetle panoplied in gems and gold,

A mailed angel on a battle-day:

The mysteries that cups of flow^ers enfold,

And all the gorgeous sights w^hich fairies do behold.

He w^ould entice that other man to hear
His music, and to view^ his imagery:
And, sooth, these tw^o did love each other dear,
As far as love in such a place could be :
There did they dwell — from earthly labour free,
As happy spirits as were ever seen ;
If but a bird, to keep them company,
Or butterfly sate down, they were, I w^een,
As pleased as if the same had been a maiden-
queen.

J|8NUNS fret not at their convent's narrow^
room;

And hermits are contented w^ith their cells ;
And students with their pensive citadels ;
Maids at the w^heel, the weaver at his loom.
Sit blithe and happy; bees that soar for bloom.
High as the highest peak of FurnesS'-fells,
Will murmur by the hour in foxglove bells :
In truth the prison, unto which we doom
Ourselves, no prison is: and hence for me.
In sundry moods, 'tw^as pastime to be bound
Within the sonnet's scanty plot of ground ;

XXXV

Pleased if some souls (for such there needs must be)
Who have felt the weight of too much liberty,
Should find brief solace there, as I have found.

4^ FOUR fiery steeds impatient of the rein
Whirled us o'er sunless ground beneath a sky
As void of sunshine, when, from that w^ide plain.
Clear tops of far-'off mountains w^e descry,
Like a sierra of cerulean Spain,
All light and lustre. Did no heart reply ^
Yes, there was one; — for one, asunder fly
The thousand links of that ethereal chain ;
And green vales open out, with grove and field.
And the fair front of many a happy home ;
Such tempting spots as into vision come
While soldiers, w^eary of the arms they wield.
And sick at heart of strifeful Christendom,
Gaze on the moon by parting clouds revealed.

Jiji WINGS have we, — and as far as we can go

We may find pleasure : wilderness and w^ood.

Blank ocean and mere sky, support that mood

Which w^ith the lofty sanctifies the low.

Dreams, books, are each a world; and books, we

know,

Are a substantial world, both pure and good:

Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood.

Our pastime and our happiness will grow.

There do I find a never-failing store

Of personal themes, and such as I love best;

Matter w^herein right voluble I am ;

Tw^o will I mention, dearer than the rest;

xxxvi

The gentle lady married to the Moor;

And heavenly Una with her milk'- white lamb.

J|!NOR can I not believe but that hereby
Great gains are mine ; for thus I live remote
From evil-speaking; rancour, never sought,
Comes to me not; malignant truth, or lie.
Hence have I genial seasons, hence have I
Smooth passions, smooth discourse, and joyous
thought :

And thus from day to day my little boat
Rocks in its harbour, lodging peaceably.
Blessings be w^ith them — and eternal praise,
Who gave us nobler loves, and nobler cares —
The poets, w^ho on earth have made us heirs
Of truth and pure delight by heavenly lays !
Oh ! might my name be numbered among theirs,
Then gladly would I end my mortal days.

JgJMOST sw^eet it is with unuplifted eyes

To pace the ground, if path be there or none.

While a fair region round the traveller lies

Which he forbears again to look upon;

Pleased rather with some soft ideal scene.

The work of fancy, or some happy tone

Of meditation, slipping in between

The beauty coming and the beauty gone.

If thought and love desert us, from that day

Let us break off all commerce w^ith the Muse :

With thought and love companions of our w^ay,

Whate'er the senses take or may refuse.

The mind's internal heaven shall shed her dew^s

Of inspiration on the humblest lay.

xxxvii

^^LIFE with yon Iambs, like day, is just begun,
Yet Nature seems to them a heavenly guide.
Does joy approach ^ they meet the coming tide;
And sullenness avoid, as now they shun
Pale twilight's lingering glooms, — and in the sun
Couch near their dams, with quiet satisfied ;
Or gambol — each w^ith his shadow at his side,
Varying its shape w^herever he may run.
As they from turf yet hoar w^ith sleepy dew
All turn, and court the shining and the green.
Where herbs look up, and opening flowers are seen;
Why to God's goodness cannot we be true.
And so. His gifts and promises betw^een ^
Feed to the last on pleasures ever new ^

^I WANDERED lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees.
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay :
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling w^aves in glee ; —
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company :
xxxviii

I WANDERED lonely as a cloud

I gazed — and gazed — but little thought
What wrealth the show to me had brought ;

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude ;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances w^ith the daffodils.

TO A BUTTERFLY.

j^rVE watched you now a full half-hour,

Self-poised upon that yellow^ flow^er;

And, little butterfly! indeed

I know not if you sleep or feed.

How motionless ! — not frozen seas

More motionless ! — and then

What joy awaits you, when the breeze

Hath found you out among the trees.

And calls you forth again !

This plot of orchard-ground is ours ;

My trees they are, my sister's flowers ;

Here rest your wings when they are weary;

Here lodge as in a sanctuary !

Come often to us, fear no wrong;

Sit near us on the bough !

We '11 talk of sunshine and of song,

And summer days, when we were young;

Sw^eet childish days, that were as long

As twenty days are now.

xli

J^THIS lawrn, a carpet all alive

With shadows flung from leaves — to strive

In dance, amid a press

Of sunshine, an apt emblem yields

Of worldlings revelling in the fields

Of strenuous idleness ;

Less quick the stir when tide and breeze
Encounter, and to narrow seas
Forbid a moment's rest;
The medley less when boreal lights
Glance to and fro, like aery sprites
Xo feats of arms addrest !

Yet, spite of all this eager strife.
This ceaseless play, the genuine life
That serves the steadfast hours,
Is in the grass beneath, that grows
Unheeded, and the mute repose
Of sweetly-breathing flowers.

TO THE SMALL CELANDINE.
JjtPANSIES, lilies, kingcups, daisies,
Let them live upon their praises;
Long as there 's a sun that sets.
Primroses will have their glory ;
Long as there are violets.
They will have a place in story :
There 's a flower that shall be mine,
'Tis the little celandine.

Eyes of some men travel far

For the finding of a star;

Up and down the heavens they go,

xlii

Men that keep a mighty rout !
I 'm as great as they, I tro\v,
Since the day I found thee out,
Little flower — I *11 make a stir.
Like a sage astronomer.

Modest, yet withal an elf
Bold, and lavish of thyself;
Since we needs must first have met
I have seen thee, high and low,
Thirty years or more, and yet
'Tw^as a face I did not know^;
Thou hast now, go where I may.
Fifty greetings in a day.

Ere a leaf is on a bush.
In the time before the thrush
Has a thought about her nest.
Thou wilt come with half a call.
Spreading out thy glossy breast
Like a careless prodigal ;
Telling tales about the sun.
When w^e Ve little w^armth, or none.

Poets, vain men in their mood !
Travel with the multitude :
Never heed them ; I aver
That they all are wanton wooers ;
But the thrifty cottager.
Who stirs little out of doors,
Joys to spy thee near her home;
Spring is coming, thou art come!

Comfort have thou of thy merit,
Kindly, unassuming spirit !
xliii

Careless of thy neighbourhood,
Thou dost show thy pleasant face
On the moor, and in the wood,
In the lane — there 's not a place.
Howsoever mean it be,
But 'tis good enough for thee.

Ill befall the yellow^ flowers.
Children of the flaring hours !
Buttercups, that w^ill be seen,
Whether wc will see or no ;
Others, too, of lofty mien;
Xhey have done as worldlings do.
Taken praise that should be thine.
Little, humble celandine.

Prophet of delight and mirth,
Scorned and slighted upon earth;
Herald of a mighty band.
Of a joyous train ensuing,
Singing at my heart's command.
In the lanes my thoughts pursuing,
I will sing, as doth behove.
Hymns in praise of what I love !

TO THE SAME FLOWER.

^PLEASURES newly found are sweet

When they lie about our feet :

February last, my heart

First at sight of thee was glad;

All unheard of as thou art,

Thou must needs, I think, have had,

xliv

Celandine! and long ago,
Praise of which I nothing know.

I have not a doubt but he,
Whosoe'er the man might be,
Who the first with pointed rays
(Workman worthy to be sainted)
Set the sign-board in a blaze,
When the rising sun he painted.
Took the fancy from a glance
At thy glittering countenance.

Soon as gentle breezes bring
News of winter's vanishing.
And the children build their bowers,
Sticking 'kerchief-plots of mould
All about with full-blown flow^ers.
Thick as sheep in shepherd's fold !
With the proudest thou art there.
Mantling in the tiny square.

Often have I sighed to measure
By myself a lonely pleasure.
Sighed to think I read a book
Only read, perhaps, by me;
Yet I long could overlook
Thy bright coronet and thee,
And thy arch and wily ways.
And thy store of other praise.

Blithe of heart, from week to week
Thou dost play at hide-and-seek;
While the patient primrose sits
Like a beggar in the cold,
xlv

Thou, a flower of wriscr wits,
Slip'st into thy sheltering hold;
Bright as any of the train
When ye all are out again.

Draw^n by w^hat peculiar spell,
By w^hat charm of sight or smell,
Does the dim-'eyed curious bee.
Labouring for her w^axen cells.
Fondly settle upon thee
Prized above all buds and bells
Opening daily at thy side.
By the season multiplied .''

Thou art not beyond the moon.
But a thing "beneath our shoon: "
Let the bold discoverer thrid
In his bark the polar sea ;
Rear w^ho w^ill a pyramid ;
Praise it is enough for me.
If there be but three or four
Who w^ill love my little flow^er.

THE GREEN LINNET.

J||!BENE ATH these fruit-tree boughs that shed

Their snow-'W^hite blossoms on my head.

With brightest sunshine round me spread

Of spring's unclouded w^eather,

In this sequestered nook how^ sw^eet

To sit upon my orchard'-seat !

And birds and flow^ers once more to greet,

My last year's friends together.

xlvi

One have I marked, the happiest guest
In all this covert of the blest:
Hail to thee, far above the rest
In joy of voice and pinion !
Xhou, linnet ! in thy green array,
Presiding spirit here tO'-day,
Dost lead the revels of the May ;
And this is thy dominion.

While birds, and butterflies, and flowers,
Make all one band of paramours.
Thou, ranging up and dow^n the bowers,
Art sole in thy employment :
A life, a presence like the air.
Scattering thy gladness w^ithout care.
Too blest with any one to pair ;
Thyself thy own enjoyment.

Amid yon tuft of hazel trees
That twinkle to the gusty breeze,
Behold him perched in ecstasies.
Yet seeming still to hover ;
There I w^here the flutter of his w^ings
Upon his back and body flings
Shadows and sunny glimmerings,
That cover him all over.

My dazzled sight he oft deceives,
A brother of the dancing leaves ;
Then flits, and from the cottage^eaves
Pours forth his song in gushes ;
As if by that exulting strain
He mocked and treated w^ith disdain
The voiceless form he chose to feign,
While fluttering in the bushes.
xlvii

TO THE DAISY.
j^IN youth from rock to rock I "went,
From hill to hill in discontent
Of pleasure high and turbulent,
Most pleased when most uneasy;
But now my ow^n delights I make, —
My thirst at every rill can slake,
And gladly Nature's love partake
Of thee, sweet daisy !

Thee Winter in the garland w^ears
That thinly decks his few gf ey hairs ;
Spring parts the clouds w^ith softest airs.
That she may sun thee;
Whole Summer '-fields are thine by right ;
And Autumn, melancholy wight!
Doth in thy crimson head delight
When rains are on thee.

In shoals and bands, a morrice train.
Thou greet' St the traveller in the lane;
Pleased at his greeting thee again ;
Yet nothing daunted.
Nor grieved if thou be set at nought :
And oft alone in nooks remote
We meet thee, like a pleasant thought.
When such are wanted.

Be violets in their secret mews

The flowers the wanton zephyrs choose ;

Proud be the rose, w^ith rains and dew^s

Her head impearling.

Thou liv'st w^ith less ambitious aim,

Yet hast not gone w^ithout thy fame;

xlviii

Thou art indeed by many a claim
The poet's darling.

If to a rock from rains he fly,

Or, some bright day of April sky,

Imprisoned by hot sunshme lie

Near the green holly.

And \vearily at length should fare ;

He needs but look about, and there

Thou art ! — a friend at hand, to scare

His melancholy.

A hundred times, by rock or bower.
Ere thus I have lain couched an hour.
Have I derived from thy sweet power
Some apprehension ;
Some steady love; some brief delight;
Some memory that had taken flight ;
Some chime of fancy wrong or right;
Or stray invention.

If stately passions in me burn.

And one chance look to thee should turn,

I drink out of an humbler urn

A lowlier pleasure ;

The homely sympathy that heeds

The common life our nature breeds;

A w^isdom fitted to the needs

Of hearts at leisure.

Fresh'-smitten by the morning ray,
When thou art up, alert and gay.
Then, cheerful flower ! my spirits play
With kindred gladness :
xlix f

And wrhcn, at dusk, by dews opprcst
Thou sink'st, the image of thy rest
Hath often eased my pensive breast
Of careful sadness.

And all day long I number yet,

All seasons through, another debt,

Which I, "wherever thou art met,

Xo thee am owing ;

An instinct call it, a blind sense ;

A happy, genial influence.

Coming one knows not how, nor w^hence,

Nor whither going.

Child of the year ! that round dost run
Thy pleasant course, — when day *s begun
As ready to salute the sun
As lark or leveret.

Thy long'-lost praise thou shalt regain ;
Nor be less dear to future men
Than in old time ; — thou not in vain
Art Nature's favourite.

TO THE SAME FLOWER.

^ WITH little here to do or see

Of things that in the great w^orld be,

Daisy ! again I talk to thee,

For thou art w^orthy.

Thou unassuming common'-place

Of nature, w^ith that homely face.

And yet w^ith something of a grace

Which love makes for thee '

1

Oft on the dappled turf at ease

I sit, and play with similes,

Loose types of things through all degrees,

Thoughts of thy raising:

And many a fond and idle name

I give to thee, for praise or blame.

As is the humour of the game,

While I am gazing.

A nun demure of lowly port;

Or sprightly maiden, of Love's court,

In thy simplicity the sport

Of all temptations ^

A queen in crow^n of rubies drest;

A starveling in a scanty vest ;

Are all, as seems to suit thee best,

Thy appellations.

A little Cyclops with one eye

Staring to threaten and defy,

That thought comes next — and instantly

The freak is over.

The shape will vanish — and behold

A silver shield with boss of gold.

That spreads itself, some faery bold

In fight to cover !

I see thee glittering from afar —

And then thou art a pretty star;

Not quite so fair as many are

In heaven above thee!

Yet like a star, with glittering crest,

Self-poised in air thou seem'st to rest; —

May peace come never to his nest,

Who shall reprove thee !

li

Bright flower! for by that name at last,
When all my reveries are past,
I call thee, and to that cleave fast.
Sweet silent creature !
That brcath'st w^ith me in sun and air.
Do thou, as thou art wont, repair
My heart w^ith gladness, and a share
Of thy meek nature!

Jul HOW sw^eet it is, w^hen mother Fancy rocks
The w^ayward brain, to saunter through a -wood!
An old place full of many a lovely brood,
Tall trees, green arbours, and ground- flowers in
flocks ;

And wild rose tip-toe upon hawthorn stocks.
Like a bold girl, w^ho plays her agile pranks
At wakes and fairs w^ith w^andering mounte-
banks,—

When she stands cresting the clown's head, and
mocks

The crowd beneath her. Verily I think
Such place to me is sometimes like a dream
Or map of the w^hole w^orld: thoughts,link by link.
Enter through ears and eyesight, with such gleam
Of all things, that at last in fear I shrink.
And leap at once from the delicious stream.

JjS INTENT on gathering wool from hedge and

brake

Yon busy little-ones rejoice that soon

A poor old dame will bless them for the boon :

Great is their glee w^hilc flake thev add to flake

iii

With rival earnestness ; far other strife

Than will hereafter move them, if they make

Pastime their idol, give their day of life

To pleasure snatched for reckless pleasure's sake.

Can pomp and show allay one heart-born grief .'^

Pains which the world inflicts can she requite r'

Not for an interval however brief;

The silent thoughts that search for steadfast light.

Love from her depths, and duty in her might,

And faith — these only yield secure relief.

MONASTIC VOLUPTUOUSNESS.

^ YET more, — round many a convent's blazing

fire

Unhallowed threads of revelry arc spun ;

There Venus sits disguised like a nun, —

While Bacchus, clothed in semblance of a friar,

Pours out his choicest beverage high and higher

Sparkling, until it cannot choose but run

Over the bow^l, whose silver lip hath w^on

An instant kiss of masterful desire —

To stay the precious waste. Through every brain

The domination of the sprightly juice

Spreads high conceits to madding fancy dear,

Till the arched roof, with resolute abuse

Of its grave echoes, swells a choral strain

Whose votive burthen is — " Our kingdom's here ! "

J^THE stars arc mansions built by nature's hand,
And, haply, there the spirits of the blest
Dwell, clothed in radiance, their immortal vest;
Huge ocean shows, within his yellow^ strand,
liii

A habitation marvellously planned,
For life to occupy in love and rest ;
All that we see — is dome, or vault, or nest.
Or fortress, reared at nature's sage command.
Glad thought for every season ! but the Spring
Gave it while cares w^ere weighing on my heart,
'Mid song of birds, and insects murmuring;
And while the youthful year's prolific art —
Of bud, leaf, blade, and flower — was fashioning
Abodes w^here self^disturbance hath no part.

jl^M THERE ! " said a stripling, pointing with
meet pride

Towards a low roof with green trees half con cealed,
" Is Mosgiel Farm ; and that 's the very field
Where Burns ploughed up the daisy." Far and
w^idc

A plain below stretched seaward, while, descried
Above sea-clouds, the peaks of Arran rose;
And, by that simple notice, the repose
Of earth, sky, sea, and air, was vivified.
Beneath " the random bield of clod or stone"
Myriads of daisies have shone forth in flow^er
Near the lark's nest, and in their natural hour
Have passed aw^ay ; less happy than the one
That, by the unw^illing ploughshare, died to prove
The tender charm of poetry and love.

MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS, LANDING

AT THE MOUTH OF THE DERWENT,

WORKINGTON.

j^DEAR to the Loves, and to the Graces vow^ed,

liv

The Queen drew back the wimple that she wore ;
And to the throng how touchingly she bowed
That hailed her landing on the Cumbrian shore;
And like a star (that, from a heavy cloud
Of pine'-tree foliage poised in air, forth darts,
When a soft summer gale at evening parts
The gloom that did its loveliness enshroud)
She smiled; but Time, the old Saturnian seer,
Sighed on the wing as her foot pressed the strand,
With step prelusive to a long array
Of woes and degradations hand in hand —
Weeping captivity, and shuddering fear
Stilled by the ensanguined block of Fotheringay !

Jl^THE most alluring clouds that mount the sky
Owe to a troubled element their forms.
Their hues to sunset. If with raptured eye
We w^atch their splendour, shall we covet storms,
And wrish the Lord of Day his slow decline
Would hasten, that such pomp may float on highr^
Behold, already they forget to shine,
Dissolve — and leave to him who gazed a sigh.
Not loth to thank each moment for its boon
Of pure delight, come w^hensoe'er it may.
Peace let us seek, — to steadfast things attune
Calm expectations, leaving to the gay
And volatile their love of transient bowers.
The house that cannot pass aw^ay be ours.

INSIDE OF KING'S COLLEGE CHAPEL,

CAMBRIDGE.

J|!TAX not the royal saint with vain expense,

Iv

With ill-matched aims the architect who planned —

Albeit labouring for a scanty band

Of white-robed scholars only — this immense

And glorious work of fine intelligence !

Give all thou canst; high heaven rejects the lore

Of nicely-calculated less or more;

So deemed the man who fashioned for the sense

These lofty pillars, spread that branching roof

Self-poised, and scooped into ten thousand cells,

Where light and shade repose, w^here music dw^ells

Lingering — and wandering on as loth to die ;

Like thoughts w^hose very sweetness yieldeth proof

Xhat they w^cre born for immortality.

Jiji LANCE, shield, and sw^ord relinquished — at

his side

A bead-roll, in his hand a clasped book.

Or staff more harmless than a shepherd's crook,

Xhe war-w^orn chieftain quits the world — to hide

His thin autumnal locks w^here monks abide

In cloistered privacy. But not to dwell

In soft repose he comes. Within his cell,

Round the decaying trunk of human pride,

At morn and eve, and midnight's silent hour.

Do penitential cogitations clmg;

Like ivy, round some ancient elm, they twine

In grisly folds and strictures serpentine;

Yet, while they strangle, a fair grow^th they bring,

For recompense — their own perennial bower.

J^UNQyiET childhood here by special grace

Forgets her nature, opening like a flower

Ivi

That neither feeds nor wastes its vital power
In painful struggles. Months each other chase,
And nought untunes that infant's voice ; no trace
Of fretful temper sullies her pure cheek;
Prompt, lively, self sufficing, yet so meek
That one enrapt with gazing on her face
(Which even the placid innocence of death
Could scarcely make more placid, heaven more
bright)

Might learn to picture, for the eye of faith.
The Virgin, as she shone with kindred light ;
A nursling couched upon her mother's knee.
Beneath some shady palm of Galilee.

J|!SOLE listener, Duddon, to the breeze that

'ith thy clear voice, I caught the fitful sound
Wafted o'er sullen moss and craggy mound —
Unfruitful solitudes, that seemed to upbraid
The sun in heaven ! — but now, to form a shade
For thee, green alders have together w^ound
Their foliage; ashes flung their arms around;
And birch'-trees risen in silver colonnade.
And thou hast also tempted here to rise,
'Mid sheltering pines, this cottage rude and grey;
Whose ruddy children, by the mother's eyes
Carelessly w^atched, sport through the summer
day.

Thy pleased associates : — light as endless May
On infant bosoms lonely nature lies.

Ivii g

LOUISA.— AFTER ACCOMPANYING

HER ON A MOUNTAIN EXCURSION,

J^l MET Louisa in the shade,

And, having seen that lovely maid,

Why should I fear to say

That she is ruddy, fleet and strong,

And down the rocks can leap along

Like rivulets in May r'

And she hath smiles to earth unknowrn;
Smiles that with motion of their own
Do spread, and sink, and rise;
That come and go w^ith endless play
And ever as they pass away
Are hidden in her eyes.

She loves her fire, her cottage-home ;
Yet o'er the moorland will she roam
In w^eather rough and bleak;
And, when against the w^ind she strains.
Oh ! might I kiss the mountain rains
That sparkle on her cheek.

Take all that 's mine "beneath the moon,"

If I w^ith her but half a noon

May sit beneath the walls

Of some old cave, or mossy nook.

When up she winds along the brook

To hunt the waterfalls.

JjiSTRANGE fits of passion have I know^n:

And I will dare to tell.

But in the lover's ear alone,

What once to me befell.

Iviii

When she I loved was strong and gay,
And like a rose in June,
I to her cottage bent my way,
Beneath the evening moon.

Upon the moon I fixed my eye,

All over the wide lea ;

My horse trudged on — and we drew nigh

Those paths so dear to me.

And now vsre reached the orchard-plot ;
And, as we climbed the hill,
Tow^ards the roof of Lucy's cot
The moon descended still.

In one of those swreet dreams I slept.
Kind nature's gentlest boon !
And all the w^hile my eyes I kept
On the descending moon.

My horse moved on ; hoof after hoof
He raised, and never stopped:
When dow^n behind the cottage roof,
At once, the bright moon dropped.

What fond and wayw^ard thoughts will slide

Into a lover's head !

** O mercy! " to myself I cried,

" If Lucy should be dead! "

J|f!SHE was a phantom of delight
When first she gleamed upon my sight;
A lovely apparition, sent
lix

To be a moment's ornament;
Her eyes as stars of twilight fair;
Like twilight's, too, her dusky hair;
But all things else about her draw^n
From May'- time and the cheerful dawn;
A dancing shape, an image gay,
To haunt, to startle, and w^ay'-lay.

I saw her upon nearer view^,

A spirit, yet a woman too !

Her household motions light and free.

And steps of virgin-liberty;

A countenance in w^hich did meet

Sw^eet records, promises as sw^eet;

A creature not too bright or good

For human nature's daily food ;

For transient sorrows, simple wiles,

Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.

And now I see with eye serene
The very pulse of the machine ;
A being breathing thoughtful breath,
A traveller betw^een life and death ;
The reason firm, the temperate w^ill,
Endurance, foresight, strength and skill;
A perfect w^oman, nobly planned.
To warn, to comfort, and command;
And yet a spirit still, and bright
With something of angelic light.

^METHINKS 'twere no unprecedented feat
Should some benignant minister of air
Lift, and encircle w^ith a cloudy chair,
Ix

The one for whom my heart shall ever beat
With tenderest love ; — or, if a safer seat
Atween his downy wings be furnished, there
Would lodge her, and the cherished burden bear
O'er hill and valley to this dim retreat !
Rough ways my steps have trod ; — too rough and
long

For her companionship ; here dwells soft ease :
With sweets that she partakes not some distaste
Mingles, and lurking consciousness of wrong;
Languish the flowers ; the w^aters seem to waste
Their vocal charm; their sparklings cease to please.

J|l THREE years she grew in sun and shower.

Then Nature said, " A lovelier flow^er

On earth was never sown ;

This child I to myself w^ill take;

She shall be mine, and I will make

A lady of my own.

Myself will to my darling be

Both law and impulse : and w^ith me

The girl, in rock and plain.

In earth and heaven, in glade and bow^er,

Shall feel an overseeing power

To kindle or restrain.

She shall be sportive as the fawn

That wild with glee across the law^n

Or up the mountain springs ;

And hers shall be the breathing balm,

And hers the silence and the calm

Of mute insensate things.

Ixi ^

The floating clouds their state shall lend

To her; for her the willow bend;

Nor shall she fail to see

Even in the motions of the storm

Grace that shall mould the maiden's form

By silent sympathy.

The stars of midnight shall be dear

To her; and she shall lean her ear

In many a secret place

Where rivulets dance their wayward round,

And beauty born of murmuring sound

Shall pass into her face.

And vital feelings of delight

Shall rear her form to stately height,

Her virgin bosom swell ;

Such thoughts to Lucy I will give

While she and I together live

Here in this happy dell."

Thus Nature spake — The w^ork w^as done— ■

How^ soon my Lucy's race w^as run !

She died, and left to me

This heath, this calm, and quiet scene;

The memory of w^hat has been.

And never more w^ill be.

^SHE dwelt among the untrodden ways

Beside the springs of Dove,

A maid w^hom there were none to praise

And very iew to love :

Ixii

A violet by a mossy stone
Half hidden from the eye !
— Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky.

She lived unknown, and few^ could know^
When Lucy ceased to be;
But she is in her grave, and, oh,
The difference to me !

Jd! A SLUMBER did my spirit seal;
I had no human fears :
She seemed a thing that could not feel
The touch of earthly years.

No motion has she now, no force;
She neither hears nor sees ;
Rolled round in earth's diurnal course,
With rocks, and stones, and trees.

J|8I TRAVELLED among unknown men.
In lands beyond the sea ;
Nor, England! did I know^ till then
What love I bore to thee.

'Tis past, that melancholy dream!
Nor will I quit thy shore
A second time ; for still I seem
To love thee more and more.

Among thy mountains did I feel

The joy of my desire;

bciii

And she I cherished turned her wrheel
Beside an English fire.

TThy mornings showed, thy nights concealed,
The bowers w^here Lucy played;
And thine too is the last green field
That Lucy's eyes surveyed.

^ WHY art thou silent.'^ Is thy love a plant
Of such weak fibre that the treacherous air
Of absence w^ithers what was once so fair.'^
Is there no debt to pay, no boon to grant .'^
Yet have my thoughts for thee been vigilant —
Bound to thy service with unceasing care,
The mind's least generous wish a mendicant
For nought but w^hat thy happiness could spare.
Speak — though this soft w^arm heart, once free to
hold

A thousand tender pleasures, thine and mine.
Be left more desolate, more dreary cold
Than a forsaken bird's^-nest filled w^ith snow
'Mid its own bush of leafless eglantine —
Speak, that my torturing doubts their end may
know^!

Jl^ SURPRISED by joy— impatient as the wind
I turned to share the transport — Oh! w^ith w^hom
But thee, deep buried in the silent tomb.
That spot w^hich no vicissitude can find.'^
Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind —
But how could I forget thee.'' Through w^hat
pow^er,
Ixiv

Even for the least division of an hour,

Have I been so beguiled as to be blind

To my most grievous loss ! — That thought's

return

Was the wrorst pang that sorrows ever bore,

Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn.

Knowing my heart's best treasure w^as no more ;

That neither present time, nor years unborn

Could to my sight that heavenly face restore.

FROM THE ITALIAN OF MICHAEL

ANGELO.

Jjt YES! hope may w^ith my strong desire keep pace,

And I be undeluded, unbetrayed ;

For if of our affections none finds grace

In sight of Heaven, then, wherefore hath God

made

The w^orld w^hich w^e inhabit.'' Better plea

Love cannot have than that in loving thee

Glory to that eternal peace is paid,

Who such divinity to thee imparts

As hallows and makes pure all gentle hearts.

His hope is treacherous only whose love dies

With beauty, w^hich is varying every hour ;

But in chaste hearts, uninfluenced by the power

Of outw^ard change, there blooms a deathless

flower,

That breathes on earth the air of paradise.

J^NO mortal object did these eyes behold
When first they met the placid light of thine,
And my soul felt her destiny divine,
Ixv h

And hope of endless peace in me grew bold:

Heaven'-born, the soul a heavenvsrard course must

hold;

Beyond the visible -world she soars to seek

(For "what delights the sense is false and "weak)

Ideal form, the universal mould.

The wise man, I affirm, can find no rest

In that -which perishes : nor will he lend

His heart to aught which doth on time depend.

'Xis sense, unbridled w^ill, and not true love.

That kills the soul : love betters what is best,

Even here below, but more in heaven above.

LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING.
j^I HEARD a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I sate reclined.
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

To her fair w^orks did Nature link
The human soul that through me ran:
And much it grieved my heart to think
What man has made of man.

Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths ;
And tis my faith that every flow^er
Enjoys the air it breathes.

The birds around me hopped and played.
Their thoughts I cannot measure : —
But the least motion w^hich they made,
It seemed a thrill of pleasure.
Ixvi

I HEARD a thousand blended notes
While in a grove I sat reclined

^M

^^^^fW

mK

{^m^^^Smstf

wmm

Hr 1^

MasMrli^SBLt E^m^f^

fvj^ ^^S|

MM

^^M

The budding twigs spread out their fan^
To catch the breezy air;
And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there.

If this belief from heaven be sent,
If such be Nature's holy plan,
Have I not reason to lament
What man has made of man ^

BEGGARS.

JH^SHE had a tall man's height or more;

No bonnet screen'd her from the heat;

A long drab'-coloured cloak she wore,

A mantle, to her very feet

Descending w^ith a graceful flow.

And on her head a cap as w^hite as new^'-fallen

snow.

Her skin was of E gyptian brow^n .

Haughty, as if her eye had seen

Its ow^n light to a distance throw^n,

She tow^ered, fit person for a queen

To lead those ancient Amazonian files ;

Or ruling bandit's wfe among the Grecian isles.

Before me begging did she stand,

Pouring out sorrows like a sea ;

Grief after grief: — on English land

Such woes, I knew, could never be ;

And yet a boon I gave her, for the creature

Was beautiful to see — a w^eed of glorious feature.

Ixix

I left her, and pursued my vsray ;

And soon before me did espy

A pair of little boys at play,

Chasing a crimson butterfly;

The taller followed with his hat in hand,

Wreathed round with yellow^ flowers the gayest of

the land.

The other wore a rimless crown

With leaves of laurel stuck about;

And w^hile both followed up and down.

Each w^hooping with a merry shout,

Tw^o brothers seemed they, eight and ten years old ;

And like that woman's face as gold is like to gold.

Yet they, so blithe of heart, seemed fit

For finest tasks of earth or air :

Wings let them have, and they may flit

Precursors to Aurora's car.

Scattering fresh flow^ers; though happier far, I ween,

To hunt their fluttering game o'er rock and level

green.

They dart across my path — and lo.

Each ready w^ith a plaintive whine !

Said I, " not half an hour ago

Your mother has had alms of mine."

' ' That cannot be," one answered — ' ' she is dead : * ' —

I looked reproof — they saw — but neither hung his

head.

" She has been dead, sir, many a day."-
" Sw^eet boys ! you 're telling me a lie;
Ixx

It 'was your mother, as I say! "

Atid, in the twinkling of an eye,

" Come ! come ! " cried one, and writhout more ado

Off to some other play the joyous vagrants flew I

THE FOUNTAIN.— -A CONVERSATION.

Jjl WE talked w^ith open heart, and tongue

Affectionate and true,

A pair of friends, though I w^as young.

And Matthew^ seventy '-two.

We lay beneath a spreading oak,
Beside a mossy seat;
And from the turf a fountain broke.
And gurgled at our feet.

" Now, Matthew ! " said I, " let us match
This water's pleasant tune
With some old border'-song, or catch
That suits a summer's noon;

" Or of the church '-clock and the chimes
Sing here beneath the shade.
That half-mad thing of w^itty rhymes
Which you last April made ! "

In silence Matthew lay, and eyed
The spring beneath the tree ;
And thus the dear old man replied,
The grey-haired man of glee:

" Dow^n to the vale this water steers,

How^ merrily it goes !

Ixxi

'T'will murmur on a thousand years,
And flow as now it flows.

'' And here, on this delightful day,
I cannot choose but think
How^ oft, a vigorous man, I lay
Beside this fountain's brink.

" My eyes are dim with childish tears.
My heart is idly stirred,
For the same sound is in my ears
Which in those days I heard.

"Thus fares it still in our decay:
And yet the w^iser mind
Mourns less for w^hat age takes away
Than w^hat it leaves behind.

"The blackbird amid leafy trees,
The lark above the hill.
Let loose their carols w^hen they please.
Are quiet w^hen they will.

''With nature never do they w^age
A foolish strife ; they see
A happy youth, and their old age
Is beautiful and free:

" But we are pressed by heavy laws ;
And often, glad no more,
We wear a face of joy, because
We have been glad of yore.

Ixxii

" If there be one who need bemoan
His kindred laid in earth,
The household hearts that were his own,
It is the man of mirth.

" My davs, my friend, are almost gone,
My life has been approved,
And many love me; but by none
Am I enough beloved."

" Now both himself and me he wrongs.
The man w^ho thus complains !
I live and sing my idle songs
Upon these happy plains ;

"And, Matthew, for thy children dead
I 'llbeason to thee!"
At this he grasped my hand, and said,
"Alas! that cannot be."

Wc rose up from the fountain-side;
And dow^n the smooth descent
Of the green sheep-track did wre glide;
And through the wood w^e went ;

And, ere w^e came to Leonard's rock.
He sang those w^itty rhymes
About the crazy old church-clock,
And the bew^ildered chimes.

THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS.
J|! WE w^alked along, w^hile bright and red
Uprose the morning sun;
Ixxiii

And Matthew stopped, he looked, and said,
" The will of God be done ! "

A village schoolmaster was he.
With hair of glittering grey;
As blithe a man as you could see
On a spring holiday.

And on that morning, through the grass,
And by the steaming rills.
We travelled merrily, to pass
A day among the hills.

" Our w^ork," said I, " w^as w^ell begun,
Then from thy breast what thought,
Beneath so beautiful a sun,
So sad a sigh has brought.''"

A second time did Matthew^ stop ;
And fixing still his eye
Upon the eastern mountain-top,
To me he made reply:

"Yon cloud with that long purple cleft
Brings fresh into my mind
A day like this w^hich I have left
Full thirty years behind.

'* And just above yon slope of corn
Such colours, and no other.
Were in the sky, that April morn,
Of this the very brother.

Ixxiv

"With rod and line I sued the sport
Which that sweet season gave,
And, coming to the church, stopped short
Beside my daughter's grave.

" Nine summers had she scarcely seen.
The pride of all the vale ;
And then she sang; — she would have been
A very nightingale.

" Six feet in earth my Emma lay;
And yet I loved her more,
For so it seemed, than till that day
I e'er had loved before.

"And, turning from her grave, I met.
Beside the churchyard yew,
A blooming girl, whose hair was wet
With points of morning dew.

"A basket on her head she bare;
Her brow^ w^as smooth and w^hite :
To see a child so very fair,
It was a pure delight I

" No fountain from its rocky cave
E'er tripped w^ith foot so free;
She seemed as happy as a wave
That dances on the sea.

"There came from me a sigh of pain
Which I could ill confine;
I looked at her, and looked again.
And did not w^ish her mine."
ixxv i

Matthew is in his grave ; yet now
Methinks I see him stand,
As at that moment, with a bough
Of wilding in his hand.

EXPOSTULATION AND REPLY.
J^" WHY, William, on that old grey stone,
Thus for the length of half a day.
Why, William, sit you thus alone.
And dream your time away ^

"Where are your books.'' — that light bequeathed
To beings else forlorn and blind !
Up! up! and drink the spirit breathed
From dead men to their kind.

"You look round on your Mother Earth,
As if she for no purpose bore you;
As if you were her first-'born birth.
And none had lived before you !"

One morning thus, by Esthw^aite lake.
When life was sweet, I knew not w^hy.
To me my good friend Matthew spake.
And thus I made reply:

"The eye — it cannot choose but see;
We cannot bid the ear be still ;
Our bodies f<^el, w^here'er they be.
Against or w^ith our w^ill.

" Nor less I deem that there are pow^ers
Which of themselves our minds impress;
Ixxvi

That wc can feed this mind of ours
In a wise passiveness.

"Think you, 'mid all this mighty sum
Of things for ever speaking,
That nothing of itself will come,
But we must still be seeking ^

— Then ask not w^herefore, here, alone,
Conversing as I may,
I sit upon this old grey stone.
And dream my time away."

THETABLESTURNED.— AN EVENING
SCENE ON THE SAME SUBJECT.
J|!UP 1 up! my friend, and quit your books;
Or surely you'll grow double :
Up ! up ! my friend, and clear your looks;
Why all this toil and trouble r'

The sun, above the mountain's head,

A freshening lustre mellow

Through all the long green fields has spread.

His first sweet evening yellow.

Books ! 'tis a dull and endless strife :
Come, hear the w^oodland linnet,
How^ sweet his music ! on my life,
There 's more of wisdom in it.

And hark ! how blithe the throstle sings !
He, too, is no mean preacher:
Come forth into the light of things,
Let Nature be your teacher.
Ixxvii

She has a world of ready weahh,
Our minds and hearts to bless —
Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health,
Truth breathed by cheerfulness.

One impulse from a vernal w^ood
May teach you more of man,
Of moral evil and of good,
TThan all the sages can.

Sweet is the lore which Nature brings ;
Our meddling intellect
Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things:
We murder to dissect.

Enough of science and of art;
Close up those barren leaves ;
Come forth, and bring with you a heart
That w^atches and receives.

J|IIF thou indeed derive thy light from Heaven,
Then, to the measure of that heaven-born light.
Shine, poet! in thy place, and be content: —
The stars pre-eminent in magnitude.
And they that from the zenith dart their beams,
(Visible though they be to half the earth,
Though half a sphere be conscious of their bright-
ness)

Are yet of no diviner origin.
No purer essence, than the one that burns.
Like an untended watch-fire, on the ridge
Of some dark mountain ; or than those which seem
Humbly to hang, like twinkling winter lamps,
Ixxviii

Among the branches of the leafless trees ;
All are the undying offspring of one sire :
Then, to the measure of the light vouchsafed,
Shine, poet ! in thy place, and be content.

J|!THERE is a pleasure in poetic pains

Which only poets know; — *t was rightly said;

Whom could the Muses else allure to tread

Their smoothest paths, to w^ear their lightest

chains ^

When happiest fancy has inspired the strains.

How oft the malice of one luckless word

Pursues the enthusiast to the social board,

Haunts him belated on the silent plains !

Yet he repines not, if his thought stand clear.

At last, of hindrance and obscurity,

Fresh as the star that crowns the brow of morn ;

Bright, speckless, as a softly^-moulded tear

The moment it has left the virgin's eye.

Or rain'-drop lingering on the pointed thorn.

J|i A POET! — He hath put his heart to school.

Nor dares to move unpropped upon the staff

Which Art hath lodged within his hand — must

laugh

By precept only, and shed tears by rule.

Thy art be Nature; the live current quaff.

And let the groveller sip his stagnant pool.

In fear that else, when critics grave and cool

Have killed him, scorn should write his epitaph.

How does the meadow-flower its bloom unfold ^

Because the lovely little flow^er is free

Ixxix

Dowrn to its root, and, in that freedom, bold;
And so the grandeur of the forest-tree
Conies not by casting in a formal mould.
But from its ow^n divine vitality.

TO B. R. HAYDON.

J^HIGH is our calling, friend ! — Creative art

(Whether the instrument of words she use,

Or pencil pregnant with ethereal hues,)

Demands the service of a mind and heart,

Though sensitive, yet, in their w^eakest part.

Heroically fashioned — to infuse

Faith in the whispers of the lonely Muse,

While the whole world seems adverse to desert.

And, oh ! when Nature sinks, as oft she may.

Through long-lived pressure of obscure distress.

Still to be strenuous for the bright rew^ard.

And in the soul admit of no decay.

Brook no continuance of weak-mindedness —

Great is the glory, for the strife is hard !

ON THE DEPARTURE OF SIR WALTER

SCOTT FROM ABBOTSFORD, FOR

NAPLES.

^^ A TROUBLE, not of clouds, or weeping rain.

Nor of the setting sun's pathetic light

Engendered, hangs o'er Eildons triple height;

Spirits of pow^er, assembled there, complain

For kindred pow^er departing from their sight ;

While Tweed, best pleased in chanting a blithe

strain.

Saddens his voice again, and yet again.

Ixxx

Lift up your hearts, yc mourners ! for the might
Of the whole world's good wishes w^ith him goes!
Blessings and prayers in nobler retinue
Than sceptred king or laurelled conqueror knows,
Follow^ this w^ondrous potentate. Be true,
Yc w^inds of ocean, and the midland sea,
Wafting your charge to soft Parthenope !

THERE WAS A BOY.

JllTHERE w^as a boy; yc kncw^ him w^ell, ye

cliffs

And islands of Winander! — many a time,

At evening, "when the earliest stars began

To move along the edges of the hills.

Rising or setting, would he stand alone.

Beneath the trees, or by the glimmering lake;

And there, with fingers interwoven, both hands

Pressed closely palm to palm and to his mouth

Uplifted, he, as through an instrument.

Blew mimic hootings to the silent o'wls.

That they might answer him. — And they w^ould

shout

Across the watery vale, and shout again.

Responsive to his call, — w^ith quivering peals.

Ana long halloos, and screams, and echoes loud

Redoubled and redoubled ; concourse wild

Of mirth and jocund din ! And, w^hen it chanced

That pauses of deep silence mocked his skill.

Then sometimes, in that silence, while he hung

Listening, a gentle shock of mild surprise

Has carried far into his heart the voice

Of mountain-torrents; or the visible scene

Would enter unawares into his mind

Ixxxi

With all its solemn imagery, its rocks,

Its woods, and that uncertain heaven received

Into the bosom of the steady lake.

This boy was taken from his mates, and died

In childhood, ere he was full twelve years old.

Fair is the spot, most beautiful the vale

Where he was born : the grassy churchyard

hangs

Upon a slope above the village-school;

And through that churchyard when my way has led

On summer evenings, I believe that there

A long half-hour together I have stood

Mute — looking at the grave in w^hich he lies !

NUTTING.

^ IT seems a day

(I speak of one from many singled out)
One of those heavenly days that cannot die ;
When, in the eagerness of boyish hope,
I left our cottage threshold, sallying forth
With a huge wallet o'er my shoulders slung,
A nutting-crook in hand ; and turned my steps
Tow'rd some far distant wood, a figure quaint,
Tricked out in proud disguise of cast-off weeds
Which for that service had been husbanded,
By exhortation of my frugal dame ;
Motley accoutrement, of power to smile
At thorns, and brakes, and brambles, — and in truth
More ragged than need w^as! Among the w^oods
And o'er the pathless rocks, I forced my w^ay.
Until, at length, I came to one dear nook
Unvisited, where not a broken bough
Ixxxii

Drooped with its withered leaves, ungracious sign

Of devastation; but the hazels rose

Tall and erect, w^ith milk-w^hitc clusters hung,

A virgin scene! — A little while I stood.

Breathing w^ith such suppression of the heart

As joy delights in; and w^ith wise restraint

Voluptuous, fearless of a rival, eyed

The ijanquet; — or beneath the trees I sate

Among the flowers, and with the flow^ers I played;

A temper know^n to those who, after long

And weary expectation, have been blest

With sudden happiness beyond all hope.

Perhaps it was a bower beneath whose leaves

The violets of five seasons re-appear

And fade, unseen by any human eye ;

Where fairy water-Jbreaks do murmur on

For ever; and I saw^ the sparkling foam.

And — w^ith my cheek on one of those green stones

That, fleeced with moss, beneath the shady trees,

Lay round me, scattered like a flock of sheep —

I heard the murmur and the murmuring sound.

In that sweet mood when pleasure loves to pay

Tribute to ease ; and, of its joy secure.

The heart luxuriates with indifferent things.

Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones,

And on the vacant air. Then up I rose.

And dragged to earth both branch and bought

wth crash

And merciless ravage: and the shady nook

Of hazels, and the green and mossy bower.

Deformed and sullied, patiently gave up

Their quiet being: and unless I now

Confound my present feelings with the past.

Even then, w^hen from the bow^er I turned aw^ay

bcxxiii k

Exulting, rich beyond the wealth of kings,
I felt a sense of pain when I beheld
The silent trees, and the intruding sky. —
Then, dearest maiden, move along these shades
In gentleness of heart ; w^ith gentle hand
Touch — for there is a spirit in the woods.

INFLUENCE OF NATURAL OBJECTS
IN CALLING FORTH AND STRENGTH-
ENING THE IMAGINATION IN BOY-
HOOD AND EARLY YOUTH.— FROM AN
UNPUBLISHED POEM
j^ WISDOM and spirit of the universe!
Thou soul, that art the eternity of thought!
And giv'st to forms and images a breath
And everlasting motion ! not in vain.
By day or star-light, thus from my first dawn
Of childhood didst thou intertwine for me
The passions that build up our human soul ;
Not with the mean and vulgar works of man ;
But with high objects, with enduring things,
With life and nature ; purifying thus
The elements of feeling and of thought,
And sanctifying by such discipline
Both pain and fear, — until we recognise
A grandeur in the beatings of the heart.

Nor was this fellow^ship vouchsafed to me
With stinted kindness. In November days,
When vapours rolling dow^n the valleys made
A lonely scene more lonesome; among woods
At noon ; and 'mid the calm of summer nights,
When, by the margin of the trembling lake,
Ixxxiv

Beneath the gloomy hills, homeward I went

In solitude, such intercourse w^as mine:

Mine was it in the fields both day and night,

And by the waters, all the summer long.

And in the frosty season, w^hen the sun

Was set, and, visible for many a mile.

The cottage- windows through the twilight blazed,

I heeded not the summons : happy time

It was indeed for all of us; for me

It was a time of rapture ! Clear and loud

The villagC'-clock tolled six — I wheeled about,

Proud and exulting like an untired horse

Xhat cares not for his home. — All shod with steel

We hissed along the polished ice, in games

Confederate, imitative of the chase

And woodland pleasures, — the resounding horn,

The pack loud-chiming, and the hunted hare.

So through the darkness and the cold we flew,

And not a voice was idle : with the din

Smitten, the precipices rang aloud;

The leafless trees and every icy crag

Tinkled like iron; while far-distant hills

Into the tumult sent an alien sound

Of melancholy, not unnoticed while the stars.

Eastward, were sparkling clear, and in the west

The orange sky of evening died away.

Not seldom from the uproar I retired

Into a silent bay, or sportively

Glanced sideway, leaving the tumultuous throng.

To cut across the reflex of a star;

Image that, flying still before me, gleamed

Upon the glassy plain: and oftentimes.

When we had given our bodies to the w^ind,

Ixxxv

And all the shadowy banks on cither side
Came swreeping through the darkness, spinning
still

The rapid line of motion, then at once
Have I, reclining back upon my heels,
Stopped short; yet still the solitary cliffs
Wheeled by me — even as if the earth had rolled
With visible motion her diurnal round !
Behind me did they stretch in solemn train,
Feebler and feebler, and I stood and watched
Till all was tranquil as a summer sea.

ODE ON INTIMATIONS OF IMMOR-
TALITY FROM RECOLLECTIONS OF
EARLY CHILDHOOD.

JjiTHERE was a timew^hen meadow^, grove, and
stream.

The earth, and every common sight,
To me did seem
Apparelled in celestial light.
The glory and the freshness of a dream.
It is not now as it hath been of yore; —
Turn wheresoe'er I may,
By night or day.

The things w^hich I have seen I now^ can see no
more.

The rainbow^ comes and goes.

And lovely is the rose.

The moon doth w^ith delight

Look round her when the heavens are bare.

Waters on a starry night

Are beautiful and fair;

Ixxxvi

The sunshine is a glorious birth;

But yet I know, where'er I go,

That there hath past away a glory from the earth.

Now^, w^hile the birds thus sing a joyous song,

And w^hile the young lambs bound

As to the tabor's sound.

To me alone there came a thought of grief:

A timely utterance gave that thought relief,

And I again am strong:

The cataracts blow^ their trumpets from the steep ;

No more shall grief of mine the season wrong;

I hear the echoes through the mountains throng,

The w^inds come to me from the fields of sleep,

And all the earth is gay;

Land and sea

Give themselves up to jollity,

And w^ith the heart of May

Doth every beast keep holiday ; —

Thou child of joy,

Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy

shepherd boy !

Ye blessed creatures, I have heard the call

Ye to each other make ; I see

The heavens laugh w^ith you in your jubilee ;

My heart is at your festival,

My head hath its coronal.

The fulness of your bliss, I feel — I feel it all.

Oh evil day 1 if I were sullen

While earth herself is adorning.

This sweet May --morning.

And the children are culling

On every side,

ixxxvii

In a thousand valleys far and wide,

Fresh flowers ; while the sun shines warm,

And the babe leaps up on his mother's arm: —

I hear, I hear, with joy I hear !

— But there's a tree, of many, one,

A single field which I have looked upon,

Both of them speak of something that is gone :

The pansy at my feet

Doth the same tale repeat :

Whither is fled the visionary gleam ^

Where is it now, the glory and the dream ^

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting :

The soul that rises with us, our life's star.

Hath had elsewhere its setting.

And cometh from afar :

Not in entire forgetfulness,

And not in utter nakedness.

But trailing clouds of glory do we come

From God, who is our home :

Heaven lies about us in our infancy!

Shades of the prisons-house begin to close

Upon the growing boy.

But he beholds the light, and w^hence it flow^s^

He sees it in his joy;

The youth, who daily farther from the east

Must travel, still is Nature's priest.

And by the vision splendid

Is on his way attended;

At length the man perceives it die away,

And fade into the light of common day.

Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her ow^n;
Yearnings she hath in her ow^n natural kind,
Ixxxviii

And, even with something of a mother's mind,

And no un\vorthy aim,

The homely nurse doth all she can

To make her foster-child, her inmate man,

Forget the glories he hath known,

And that imperial palace whence he came.

Behold the child among his new^'-born blisses,

A six years' darling of a pigmy size !

See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies,

Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses.

With light upon him from his father's eyes!

See, at his feet, some little plan or chart.

Some fragment from his dream of human life,

Shaped by himself w^ith new^ly "learned art;

A wedding or a festival,

A mourning or a funeral ;

And this hath now his heart.

And unto this he frames his song:

Then will he fit his tongue

To dialogues of business, love, or strife:

But it will not be long

Ere this be thrown aside.

And with new joy and pride

The little actor cons another part;

Filling from time to time his "humorous stage"

With all the persons, dow^n to palsied age.

That Life brings w^ith her in her equipage;

As if his whole vocation

Were endless imitation.

Thou, w^hose exterior semblance doth belie

Thy soul's immensity;

Thou best Philosopher, w^ho yet dost keep

Ixxxix

Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind,

That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep,

Haunted for ever by the eternal mind, —

Mighty prophet ! seer blest !

On whom those truths do rest.

Which we are toiling all our lives to find,

In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave;

Thou, over w^hom thy Immortality

Broods like the day, a master o'er a slave,

A Presence w^hich is not to be put by;

Thou little child, yet glorious in the might

Of heaven--born freedom on thy being's height.

Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke

The years to bring the inevitable yoke.

Thus blindly writh thy blessedness at strife ^

Full soon thy Soul shall have her earthly freight,

And custom lie upon thee writh a wreight.

Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life !

O joy! that in our embers

Is something that doth live.

That nature yet remembers

What was so fugitive !

The thought of our past years in me doth breed

Perpetual benediction : not indeed

For that w^hich is most worthy to be blest;

Delight and liberty, the simple creed

Of childhood, whether busy or at rest.

With newT'- fledged hope still fluttering in his

breast: —
Not for these I raise
The song of thanks and praise ;
But for those obstinate questionings
Of sense and outw^ard things,
xc

i Fallings from us, vamshings;

f Blank misgivings of a creature

Moving about in worlds not realised,
High instincts before which our mortal nature
Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised:
But for those first affections,

I Those shadowy recollections,
Which, be they w^hat they may,
Are yet the fountain --light of all our day,
Are yet a master-light of all our seeing ;
Uphold us, cherish, and have pow^er to make
Our noisy years seem moments in the being
Of the eternal silence : truths that w^ake,

f To perish never :

Which neither listlessncss, nor mad endeavour,

Nor man nor boy.

Nor all that is at enmity w^ith joy,

Can utterly abolish or destroy !

Hence in a season of calm weather

Though inland far w^e be.

Our souls have sight of that immortal sea

Which brought us hither.

Can in a moment travel thither,

And see the children sport upon the shore.

And hear the mighty w^aters rolling evermore.

Then sing, ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song!

And let the young lambs bound

As to the tabor's sound!

We in thought w^ill join your throng,

Ye that pipe and ye that play.

Ye that through your hearts to-'day

Feel the gladness of the May !

What though the radiance which w^as once so bright

xci 1

Be now for ever taken from my sight,

Though nothing can bring back the hour

Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flowrer;

We will grieve not, rather find

Strength in w^hat remains behind;

In the primal sympathy

Which having been must ever be ;

In the soothing thoughts that spring

Out of human suffering;

In the faith that looks through death,

In years that bring the philosophic mind.

And O, ye fountains, meadow^s, hills, and groves.

Forebode not any severing of our loves !

Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;

I only have relinquished one delight

Xo live beneath your more habitual sw^ay.

I love the brooks which down their channels fret,

Even more than w^hen I tripped lightly as they;

The innocent brightness of a new^'-born day

Is lovely yet;

The clouds that gather round the setting sun

Do take a sober colouring from an eye

That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality;

Another race hath been, and other palms are w^on.

Thanks to the human heart by which we live,

Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears.

To me the meanest flow^er that blow^s can give

Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.

TO HARTLEY COLERIDGE— SIX

YEARS OLD

Jji O TH OU ! w^hose fancies from afar are brought ;

xcii

Who of thy words dost make a mock apparel,

And fittest to unutterable thought

The breeze-like motion and the self-born carol ;

Thou faery voyager ! that dost float

In such clear water, that thy boat

May rather seem

To brood on air than on an earthly stream ;

Suspended in a stream as clear as sky,

Where earth and heaven do make one imagery;

0 blessed vision ! happy child !
Thou art so exquisitely w^ild,

1 think of thee with many fears

For what may be thy lot in future years.

I thought of times w^hen pain might be thy guest,

Lord of thy house and hospitality ;

And grief, uneasy lover! never rest

But when she sate within the touch of thee.

O too industrious folly !

O vain and causeless melancholy !

Nature will either end thee quite ;

Or, lengthening out thy season of delight.

Preserve for thee, by individual right,

A young lamb's heart among the full-grown

flocks.

What hast thou to do with sorrow,

Or the injuries of to-morrow ^

Thou art adcw^-drop, w^hich the morn brings forth,

111 fitted to sustain unkindly shocks.

Or to be trailed along the soiling earth ;

A gem that glitters w^hile it lives.

And no forewarning gives ;

But, at the touch of wrong, vsrithout a strife

Slips in a moment out of life.

xciii

TO A HIGHLAND GIRL.— AT INVERS-

NAID, UPON LOCH LOMOND.

4^ SWEET Highland Girl, a very shower

Of beauty is thy earthly dovsrer !

Twice seven consenting years have shed

Their utmost bounty on thy head:

And these grey rocks ; that household law^n ;

Those trees, a veil just half w^ithdraw^n ;

This fall of w^ater that doth make

A murmur near the silent lake ;

This little bay, a quiet road

That holds in shelter thy abode —

In truth together do ye seem

Like something fashioned in a dream ;

Such forms as from their covert peep

When earthly cares are laid asleep !

Yet dream and vision as thou art,

I bless thee with a human heart ;

God shield thee to thy latest years !

Thee, neither know I, nor thy peers;

And yet my eyes are filled with tears.

With earnest feeling I shall pray
For thee w^hen I am far aw^ay:
For never saw I mien, or face.
In w^hich more plainly I could trace
Benignity and home-bred sense
Ripening in perfect innocence.
Here scattered, like a random seed.
Remote from men, thou dost not need
The embarrassed look of shy distress,
And maidenly shamefacedness :
Thou wear*st upon thy forehead clear
The freedom of a mountaineer:
xciv

A face -with gladness overspread!
Soft smiles, by human kindness bred !
And seemliness complete, that sways
Thy courtesies, about thee plays ;
With no restraint, but such as springs
From quick and eager visitings
Of thoughts that lie beyond the reach
Of thy few words of English speech:
A bondage sweetly brooked, a strife
That gives thy gestures grace and life !
So have I, not unmoved in mind,
Seen birds of tempest'-loving kind —
Thus beating up against the w^ind.

What hand but w^ould a garland cull
For thee who art so beautiful ^

0 happy pleasure ! here to dw^ell
Besiae thee in some heathy dell;
Adopt your homely ways, and dress,
A shepherd, thou a shepherdess!
But I could frame a wish for thee
More like a grave reality:

Thou art to me but as a w^ave

Of the w^ild sea; and I would have

Some claim upon thee, if I could,

Though but of common neighbourhood.

What joy to hear thee, and to see !

Thy elder brother I would be,

Thy father — anything to thee !

Now thanks to Heaven ! that of its grace
Hath led me to this lonely place.
Joy have I had; and going hence

1 bear aw^ay my recompense,
xcv

In spots like these it is we prize

Our memory, feel that she hath eyes:

Then, why should I be loth to stirr'

I feel this place w^as made for her;

To give new^ pleasure like the past,

Continued long as life shall last.

Nor am I loth, though pleased at heart,

Sw^eet Highland Girl! from thee to part;

For I, methinks, till I grow^ old.

As fair before me shall behold.

As I do now^, the cabin small.

The lake, the bay, the w^aterfall;

And thee, the spirit of them all !

GLEN^ALMAIN; OR, THE NARROW

GLEN.

J^IN this still place, remote from men.

Sleeps Ossian, in the narrow^ glen;

In this still place, where murmurs on

But one meek streamlet, only one :

He sang of battles, and the breath

Of stormy war, and violent death ;

And should, methinks, w^hen all w^as past,

Have rightfully been laid at last

Where rocks w^ere rudely heaped, and rent

As by a spirit turbulent ;

Where sights w^ere rough, and sounds w^ere

wild,

And everything unreconciled ;

In some complaining, dim retreat,

For fear and melancholy meet ;

But this is calm; there cannot be

A more entire tranquillity.

xcvi

Docs then the bard sleep here indeed ^
Of is it but a groundless creed .^
What matters \t^ — I blame them not
Whose fancy in this lonely spot
Was moved; and in such way expressed
Their notion of its perfect rest.
A convent, even a hermit's cell,
Would break the silence of this dell :
It is not quiet, is not ease ;
But something deeper far than these :
The separation that is here
Is of the grave ; and of austere
Yet happy feelings of the dead :
And, therefore, was it rightly said
That Ossian, last of all his race !
Lies buried in this lonely place.

YARROW UNVISITED.
JglFROM Stirling castle w^e had seen
The mazy Forth unravelled;
Had trod the banks of Clyde, and Tay,
And w^ith the Tw^eed had travelled
And when we came to Clovenford,
Then said my "winsome Marrow,"
" Whate'er betide, we'll turn aside,
And see the Braes of Yarrow^."

"Let Yarrow^ folk, frae Selkirk tow^n,
Who have been buying, selling,
Go back to Yarrow, 'tis their ow^n ;
Each maiden to her dwelling!
On Yarrow^'s banks let herons feed,
Hares couch, and rabbits burrow^ !
xcvii

But wrc wrill downward w^ith the Tw^ccd,
Nor turn aside to Yarrow^.

There's Gala Water, Leader Haughs,

Both lying right before us ;

And Dryborough, where w^ith chiming Tw^eed

The lintwhites sing in chorus ;

There's pleasant Tiviot-dalc, a land

Made blithe w^ith plough and harrow^:

Why throw^ away a needful day

To go in search of Yarrow^r^

What's Yarrow^ but a river bare,

That glides the dark hills under r^

There are a thousand such elsewhere

As w^orthy of your w^onder."

— Strange w^ords they seemed of slight and scorn ;

My true-love sighed for sorrow ;

And looked me in the face, to think

I thus could speak of Yarrow^ !

"Oh! green," said I, "are Yarrow s holms.
And sweet is Yarrow flow^ing !
Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,
But w^e will leave it growing.
O'er hilly path, and open strath.
We'll wander Scotland thorough ;
But, though so near, w^e w^ill not turn
Into the dale of Yarrow.

Let beeves and home-bred kine partake
The sw^eets of Burn-mill meadow^ ;
The swan on still St. Mary's lake
Float double, swan and shadow !
xcviii

Wc will not sec them ; will not go,
Xo-day, nor yet to-'mor r ow :
Enough if in our hearts w^e know^
There's such a place as Yarrow^.

Be Yarrow^ stream unseen, unknow^n!
It must, or w^e shall rue it:
We have a vision of our own ;
Ah ! why should we undo it ^
The treasured dreams of times long past,
We'll keep them, w^insome Marrow^ I
For w^hen w^e're there, although 'tis fair,
Tw^ill be another Yarrow^ !

If care w^ith freezing years should come,
And wanderina seem but folly, —
Should w^e be loth to stir from home,
And yet be melancholy ;
Should life be dull, and spirits low^,
'Twill soothe us in our sorrow.
That earth hath something yet to show.
The bonny holms of Yarrow^ ! "

TO MY SISTER.— WRITTEN AT A
SMALL DISTANCE FROM MY HOUSE,
AND SENT BY MY LITTLE BOY.
J|!IT is the first mild day of March :
Each minute sweeter than before.
The redbreast sings from the tall larch
That stands beside our door.

There is a blessing in the air.
Which seems a sense of joy to yield
xcix m

To the bare trees, and tnountains bare,
And grass in the green field.

My sister! ('tis a wish of mine)
Now that our morning meal is done,
Make haste, your morning task resign;
Come forth and feel the sun.

Edward w^ill come w^ith you; — and, pray,
Put on w^ith speed your woodland dress ;
And bring no book : for this one day
We 11 give to idleness.

No joyless forms shall regulate
Our living calendar:
We from tO'-day, my friend, w^ill date
The opening of the year.

Love, now^ an universal birth.
From heart to heart is stealing.
From earth to man, from man to earth :
— It is the hour of feeling.

One moment now may give us more
Than fifty years of reason :
Our minds shall drink at every pore
The spirit of the season.

Some silent law^s our hearts may make,
Which they shall long obey :
Wc for the year to come may take
Our temper from tO'-day.

And from the blessed power that rolls
About, below, above,
We'll frame the measure of our souls :
They shall be tuned to love.

Then come, my sister! come, I pfay,
With speed put on your woodland dress ;
And bring no book : for this one day
We'll give to idleness.

TO A YOUNG LADY, WHO HAD BEEN

REPROACHED FOR TAKING LONG

WALKS IN THE COUNTRY.

JjiDEAR Child of Nature, let them rail!

— There is a nest in a green dale,

A harbour and a hold;

Where thou, a wife and friend, shalt see

Thy ow^n delightful days, and be

A light to young and old.

There, healthy as a shepherd boy,

And treading among flowers of joy

Which at no season fade.

Thou, w^hile thy babes around thee cling,

Shalt show^ us how^ divine a thing

A woman may be made.

Thy thoughts and feelings shall not die,

Nor leave thee, w^hen grey hairs are nigh,

A melancholy slave;

But an old age serene and bright.

And lovely as a Lapland night,

Shall lead thee to thy grave.

ci

TO , ON HER FIRST ASCENT TO

THE SUMMIT OF HELVELLYN.
^INMATE of a mountain-dwelling,
Thou hast clomb aloft, and gazed
From the watch-towers of Helvellyn;
Aw^ed, delighted, and amazed!

Potent w^as the spell that bound thee
Not unw^illing to obey;
For blue ether's arms, flung round thee,
Stilled the pantings of dismay.

Lo ! the dw^indled w^oods and meadow^s ;
What a vast abyss is there !
Lo ! the clouds, the solemn shadow^s.
And the glistenings — heavenly fair!

And a record of commotion
Which a thousand ridges yield ;
Ridge, and gulf, and distant ocean
Gleaming like a silver shield !

Maiden! now^ take flight; — inherit
Alps or Andes — they are thine !
With tlxe morning's roseate spirit
Sweep their length of snowy line ;

Or survey their bright dominions
In the gorgeous colours drest
Flung from off the purple pinions.
Evening spreads throughout the w^est!

Thine are all the choral fountains
Warbling in each sparry vault
cii

Of the untrodden lunar mountains;
Listen to their songs ! — or hah,

To Niphates' top invited,
Whither spiteful Satan steered ;
Or descend wrhere the ark alighted.
When the green earth re-'appeared;

For the povsrer of hills is on thee,
As was witnessed through thine eye
Then, when old Helvellyn won thee
To confess their majesty !

TO JOANNA.

J^AMID the smoke of cities did you pass

Your time of early youth; and there you learned,

From years of quiet industry, to love

The living beings by your own fire'-side.

With such a strong devotion, that your heart

Is slow^ tow^ard the sympathies of them

Who look upon the hills w^ith tenderness.

And make dear friendships w^ith the streams and

groves.

Y et we, who are transgressors in this kind.

Dwelling retired in our simplicity

Among the w^oods and fields, w^e love you w^ell,

Joanna ! and I guess, since you have been

So distant from us now^ for tw^o long years.

That you w^ill gladly listen to discourse

How^ever trivial, if you thence are taught

That they, w^ith whom you once w^ere happy, talk

Familiarly of you and of old times.

cm

While I was seated, now some ten days past '

Beneath these lofty firs, that overtop

Their ancient neighbour, the old steeple'-tow^er^

The vicar from his gloomy house hard by

Came forth to greet me ; and, w^hen he had asked,

" How fares Joanna, that w^ild'-hearted maid!

And when will she return to us r' " he paused ;

And, after short exchange of village new^s,

He w^ith grave looks demanded for w^hat cause,

Reviving obsolete idolatry,

I, like a Runic Priest, in characters

Of formidable size had chiselled out

Some uncouth name upon the native rock,

Above the Rotha, by the forest'-side.

— Now, by those dear immunities of heart

Engendered betw^ixt malice and true love,

I w^as not loth to be so catechised,

And this was my reply: — "As it befell.

One summer morning w^e had w^alked abroad

At break of day, Joanna and myself.

— 'Tw^as that delightful season w^hen the broom,

Full-flowered, and visible on every steep,

Along the copses runs in veins of gold.

Our pathway led us on to Rotha's banks;

And, when we came in front of that tall rock

Which looks tow^ard the east, I there stopped

short,

And traced the lofty barrier with my eye

From base to summit ; such delight I found

To note in shrub and tree, in stone and flower,

That intermixture of delicious hues,

Along so vast a surface, all at once,

In one impression, by connecting force

Of their ow^n beauty, imaged in the heart.

civ

— When I had gazed perhaps two minutes' space,

Joanna, looking in my eyes, beheld

That ravishment of mine, and laughed aloud.

The rock, like something starting from a sleep,

Took up the lady's voice, and laughed again;

That ancient woman seated on Helm'-crag

Was ready with her cavern; Hammar'-scar,

And the tall steep of Silver- How, sent forth

A noise of laughter ; southern Loughrigg heard,

And Fairfield answered with a mountain tone;

Helvellyn far into the clear blue sky

Carried the lady's voice, — old Skiddaw^ blew

His speaking-trumpet; — back out of the clouds

Of Glaramara southward came the voice;

And Kirkstone tossed it from his misty head.

— Now whether (said I to our cordial friend,

Who in the hey-day of astonishment

Smiled in my face) this w^ere in simple truth

A work accomplished by the brotherhood

Of ancient mountains, or my ear was touched

With dreams and visionary impulses

To me alone imparted, sure I am

That there was a loud uproar in the hills.

And, w^hile we both were listening, to my side

The fair Joanna drew, as if she wished

To shelter from some object of her fear.

— And hence, long afterwards, w^hen eighteen

moons

Were wasted, as I chanced to walk alone

Beneath this rock, at sunrise, on a calm

And silent morning, I sat dow^n, and there.

In memory of affections old and true,

I chiselled out in those rude characters

Joanna's name upon the living stone: —

cv

And I, and all who dwell by my fireside,
Have called the lovely rock, Joanna's Rock."

WE ARE SEVEN.
A simple child,

That lightly draw^s its breath,
And feels its life in every limb.
What should it know of death .'^

I met a little cottage girl:
She w^as eight years old, she said;
Her hair was thick w^ith many a curl
That clustered round her head.

She had a rustic, w^oodland air,
And she w^as Wldly clad :
Her eyes w^ere fair, and very fair ;
— Her beauty made me glad.

" Sisters and brothers, little maid,
How^ many may you be .'' "
'' How^ many.'' Seven in all," she said,
And w^ondcring looked at me.

" And where arc they ^ I pray you tell."
She answered, " Seven are w^e;
And tw^o of us at Conw^ay dw^ell,
And tw^o are gone to sea.

Two of us in the church^-yard lie,

My sister and my brother;

And, in the church'-yard cottage, I

Dw^ell near them w^ith my mother."

cvi

"You say that two at Conway dwell,
And two arc gone to sea,
Yet ye are seven ! I pray you tell,
Sweet maid, how this may be."

Then did the little maid reply,
" Seven boys and girls are w^e;
Tw^o of us in the church-yard lie.
Beneath the church'-yard tree."

" You run about, my little maid,
Your limbs they are alive;
If two are in the church-yard laid,
Then ye are only five."

"Their graves are green, they may be seen,"
The little maid replied,

"Tw^elve steps or more from my mother's door.
And they are side by side.

My stockings there I often knit,
My kerchief there I hem;
And there upon the ground I sit,
I sit and sing to them.

And often after sun-set, sir.
When it is light and fair,
I take my little porringer.
And eat my supper there.

The first that died w^as little Jane;

In bed she moaning lay,

Till God released her of her pain;

And then she w^ent aw^ay.

cvii n

So in the church --yafd she wras laid;
And, when the grass "was dry,
Together round her grave wre played,
My brother John and L

And when the ground w^as w^hite with snow.

And I could run and slide.

My brother John w^as forced to go,

And he lies by her side."

"How^ many arc you, then," said I,
" If they two are in heaven .'' "
The little maiden did reply,
" O master ! w^e arc seven."

" But they are dead; those tw^o are dead!
Their spirits are in heaven ! "
'Twas throw^ing w^ords away; for still
The little maid would have her w^ill.
And said, " Nay, w^e are seven ! "

LUCY GRAY; OR, SOLITUDE.
JjiOFT I had heard of Lucy Gray:
And, w^hcn I crossed the w^ild,
I chanced to see at break of day
The solitary child.

No mate, no comrade Lucy knew^;
She dwelt on a wide moor,
— The sw^eetest thing that ever grew
Beside a human door!

CVlll

You yet may spy the fawn at play,
The hare upon the green ;
But the sweet face of Lucy Gray
Will never more be seen*

"Xo'-night will be a stormy night —
You to the town must go ;
And take a lantern, child, to light
Your mother through the snow."

" That, father! will I gladly do :
'Tis scarcely afternoon —
The minster-clock has just struck two.
And yonder is the moon ! "

At this the father raised his hook.
And snapped a faggot-band;
He plied his w^ork ; — and Lucy took
The lantern in her hand.

Not blither is the mountain roe:
With many a wanton stroke
Her feet disperse the powdery snow.
That rises up like smoke.

The storm came on before its time :
She wandered up and down ;
And many a hill did Lucy climb :
But never reached the town.

The w^rctched parents all that night

Went shouting far and wide ;

But there was neither sound nor sight

To serve them for a guide.

cix

At day'-bf cak on a hill they stood
That overlooked the moor ;
And thence they saw the bridge of wood,
A furlong from their door.

They wept — and, turning homeward, cried,
"In heaven we all shall meet;"
— When in the snow the mother spied
The print of Lucy's feet.

Half breathless from the steep hill's edge
They tracked the footmarks small;
And through the broken haw^thorn hedge,
And by the long stone "W^all;

And then an open field they crossed:
The marks were still the same;
They tracked them on, nor ever lost;
And to the bridge they came.

They followed from the sno"wy bank
Those footmarks, one by one.
Into the middle of the plank ;
And further there w^ere none!

— Yet some maintain that to this day
She is a living child ;
That you may see sw^eet Lucy Gray
Upon the lonesome wild.

O'er rough and smooth she trips along.

And never looks behind ;

And sings a solitary song

That w^histles in the w^ind.

ex

RUTH.

J|!WHEN Ruth was left half desolate,

Her father took another mate;

And Ruth, not seven years old,

A slighted child, at her own will

Went w^andering over dale and hill.

In thoughtless freedom, bold.

And she had made a pipe of straw.
And from that oaten pipe could draw
All sounds of w^inds and floods ;
Had built a bow^er upon the green.
As if she from her birth had been
An infant of the w^oods.

Beneath her father's roof, alone

She seemed to live ; her thoughts her ow^n ;

Herself her own delight;

Pleased with herself, nor sad, nor gay;

And, passing thus the live'-long day.

She grew^ to woman's height.

There came a youth from Georgia's shore —

A military casque he w^ore.

With splendid feathers drest ;

He brought them from the Cherokees;

The feathers nodded in the breeze,

And made a gallant crest.

From Indian blood you deem him sprung:
Ah no! he spake the English tongue.
And bore a soldier's name ;
And, when America w^as free

CXI

From battle and from jeopardy,
He 'cross the ocean came.

With hues of genius on his cheek
In finest tones the youth could speak:
— While he was yet a boy,
The moon, the glory of the sun.
And streams that murmur as they run,
Had been his dearest joy.

He was a lovely youth ! I guess
The panther in the w^ilderness
Was not so fair as he;
And, w^hen he chose to sport and play.
No dolphin ever was so gay
Upon the tropic sea.

Among the Indians he had fought.

And w^ith him many tales he brought

Of pleasure and of fear ;

Such talcs as told to any maid

By such a youth, in the green shade,

Were perilous to hear.

He told of girls — a happy rout!

Who quit their fold with dance and shout.

Their pleasant Indian tow^n.

To gather strawberries all daylong;

Returning w^ith a choral song

When daylight is gone dow^n.

He spake of plants divine and strange
That every hour their blossoms change.
Ten thousand lovely hues;
cxii

With budding, fading, faded flowers
They stand the wonder of the bow^ers
From morn to evening dews.

He told of the magnolia, spread
High as a cloud, high over head!
The cypress and her spire;
— Of flowers that with one scarlet gleam
Cover a hundred leagues, and seem
To set the hills on fire.

The youth of green savannahs spake,
And many an endless, endless lake,
With all its fairy crow^ds
Of islands, that together lie
As quietly as spots of sky
Among the evening clouds.

And then he said, " How sw^cet it w^ere

A fisher or a hunter there,

A gardener in shade.

Still w^andering with an easy mind;

To build a household fire, and find

A home in every glade !

What days and w^hat sw^eet years ! Ah me !
Our life were life indeed, with thee
So passed in quiet bliss.
And all the while," said he, "to know-
That we were in a world of woe.
On such an earth as this ! "

And then he sometimes interwove
Fond thoughts about a father's love:
cxiii

"For there," said he, "are spun
Around the heart such tender ties,
That our own children to our eyes
Are dearer than the sun.

Sweet Ruth! and could you go w^ith me

My helpmate in the w^oods to be,

Our shed at night to rear;

Or run, my own adopted bride,

A sylvan huntress at my side,

And drive the flying deer!

Beloved Ruth ! " — No more he said.
The wakeful Ruth at midnight shed
A solitary tear :

She thought again — and did agree
With him to sail across the sea,
And drive the flying deer.

" And now^, as fitting is and right.
We in the church our faith w^ill plight,
A husband and a wife."
Even so they did; and I may say
That to sw^eet Ruth that happy day
Was more than human life.

Through dream and vision did she sink.
Delighted all the w^hile to think
That on those lonesome floods,
And green savannahs, she should share
His board with lawful joy, and bear
His name in the w^ild w^oods.

cxiv

But, as you have before been told,
This stripling, sportive, gay, and bold,
And, with his dancing crest,
So beautiful, through savage lands
Had roamed about, with vagrant bands
Of Indians in the West.

The w^ind, the tempest roaring high.

The tumult of a tropic sky,

Might well be dangerous food

For him, a youth to whom was given

So much of earth — so much of heaven.

And such impetuous blood.

Whatever in those climes he found

Irregular in sight or sound

Did to his mind impart

A kindred impulse, seemed allied

To his ow^n powers, and justified

The w^orkings of his heart.

Nor less, to feed voluptuous thought,
The beauteous forms of nature w^rought,
Fair trees and lovely flow^ers ;
The breezes their ow^n languor lent;
The stars had feelings, w^hich they sent
Into those gorgeous bowers.

Yet, in his worst pursuits I ween

That sometimes there did intervene

Pure hopes of high intent:

For passions linked to forms so fair

And stately needs must have their share

Of noble sentiment.

cxv o

But ill he lived, much evil saw,
With men to \vhom no better law
Nor better life was known;
Deliberately, and undeceived.
Those wild men's vices he received,
And gave them back his ow^n.

His genius and his moral frame
Were thus impaired, and he became
The slave of low^ desires:
A man w^ho w^ithout self-control
Would seek w^hat the degraded soul
Unworthily admires.

And yet he w^ith no feigned delight
Had w^ooed the maiden, day and night
Had loved her, night and morn :
What could he less than love a maid
Whose heart with so much nature played r'
So kind and so forlorn !

Sometimes, most earnestly, he said,
" O Ruth ! I have been worse than dead;
False thoughts, thoughts bold and vain,
Encompassed me on every side
When first, in confidence and pride,
I crossed the Atlantic main.

It was a fresh and glorious world —

A banner bright that was unfurled

Before me suddenly:

I looked upon those hills and plains.

And seemed as if let loose from chains,

To live at liberty.

cxvi

But 'wherefore speak of this ^ For now,
Sweet Ruth, w^ith thee, I know^ not how,
I feel my spirit burn —
Even as the east when day comes forth;
And, to the west, and south, and north,
The morning doth return."

Full soon that purer mind w^as gone :
No hope, no wish remained, not one, —
They stirred him now no more ;
New objects did new pleasure give.
And once again he w^ished to live
As lawless as before.

Meanwhile, as thus with him it fared,
They for the voyage w^ere prepared,
And w^ent to the sea'-shore.
But, when they hither came, the youth
Deserted his poor bride, and Ruth,
Could never find him more.

God help thee, Ruth ! — Such pains she had.

That she in half a year w^as mad,

And in a prison housed;

And there, exulting in her wrongs.

Among the music of her songs

She fearfully caroused.

Yet sometimes milder hours she knew^.

Nor wanted sun, nor rain, nor dew,

Nor pastimes of the May;

— They all w^ere w^ith her in her cell ;

And a clear brook writh cheerful knell

Did o'er the pebbles play.

cxvii

When Ruth three seasons thus had lain,
There came a respite to her pain;
She from her prison fled;
But of the vagrant none took thought;
And wrhere it liked her best she sought
Her shelter and her bread.

Among the fields she breathed again:
The master'- current of her brain
Ran permanent and free;
And, coming to the banks of Tone,
There did she rest; and dwell alone
Under the greenwood tree.

The engines of her pain, the tools

That shaped her sorrow, rocks and pools.

And airs that gently stir

The vernal leaves — she loved them still ;

Nor ever taxed them with the ill

Which had been done to her.

A barn her w^inter bed supplies;

But, till the warmth of summer skies

And summer days is gone,

(And all do in this tale agree)

She sleeps beneath the greenwood tree.

And other home hath none.

An innocent life, yet far astray!

And Ruth will, long before her day.

Be broken down and old:

Sore aches she needs must have ! but less

Of mind than body's w^retchedness,

From damp, and rain, and cold.

cxviii

If she is prcst by -want of food,
She from her dwelling in the wood
Repairs to a roadside ;
And there she begs at one steep place
Where up and down w^ith easy pace
The horsemen^'travellers ride.

That oaten pipe of hers is mute,
Or thrown away; but with a flute
Her loneliness she cheers :
This flute, made of a hemlock stalk,
At evening in his homeward walk
The Quantock w^oodman hears.

I, too, have passed her on the hills
Setting her little water-mills
By spouts and fountains wild —
Such small machinery as she turned
Ere she had w^ept, ere she had mourned,
A young and happy child !

Farewell ! and when thy days are told.
Ill-fated Ruth, in hallow^cd mould
Thy corpse shall buried be.
For thee a funeral bell shall ring.
And all the congregation sing
A Christian psalm for thee.

THE COMPLAINT OF AN INDIAN

WOMAN.

JH^BEFORE I see another day.

Oh let my body die away!

In sleep I heard the northern gleams;

cxix

The stars were mingled with my dreams;

In rustling conflict through the skies,

I heard, I saw the flashes drive,

And yet they are upon my eyes.

And yet I am alive ;

Before I see another day,

Oh let my body die aw^ay !

My fire is dead: it knew^ no pain;

Yet is it dead, and I remain :

All stiff w^ith ice the ashes lie;

And they are dead, and I w^ill die.

When I was w^ell, I w^ished to live.

For clothes, for w^armth, for food, and fire;

But they to me no joy can give.

No pleasure now, and no desire.

Then here contented w^ill I lie!

Alone, I cannot fear to die.

Alas ! ye might have dragged me on

Another day, a single one !

Too soon I yielded to despair;

Why did ye listen to my prayer ^

When ye were gone my limbs were stronger;

And oh, how grievously I rue.

That afterw^ards a little longer.

My friends, I did not follow^ you !

For strong and without pain I lay,

My friends, when ye were gone away.

My child ! they gave thee to another,
A woman who was not thy mother.
When from my arms my babe they took.
On me how strangely did he look !
cxx

Through his whole body something ran,

A most strange working did I see ;

— As if he strove to be a man,

That he might pull the sledge for me :

And then he stretched his arms, how^ wld I

Oh mercy ! like a helpless child.

My little joy ! my little pride !
In two days more I must have died.
Then do not weep and grieve for me;
I feel I must have died w^ith thee.

0 wind, that o'er my head art flying

The way my friends their course did bend,

1 should not feel the pain of dying,
Could I with thee a message send ;
Too soon, my friends, ye went away;
For I had many things to say.

I '11 follow you across the snow^ ;

Ye travel heavily and slow;

In spite of all my weary pain

I '11 look upon your tents again.

— My fire is dead, and snow^y w^hite

The water which beside it stood :

The wolf has come to me to-night.

And he has stolen away my food.

For ever left alone am I ;

Then w^herefore should I fear to die ^

THE AFFLICTION OF MARGARET,
j^ WHERE art thou, my beloved son.
Where art thou, worse to me than dead ^
Oh find me, prosperous or undone !
cxxi

Of, if the grave be now thy bed,
Why am I ignorant of the same
Xhat I may rest; and neither blame
Nor sorrow may attend thy namer'

Seven years, alas ! to have received
No tidings of an only child ;
To have despaired, and have believed,
And be for evermore beguiled ;
Sometimes w^ith thoughts of very bliss !
I catch at them, and then I miss ;
Was ever darkness like to this ^

He was among the prime in worth.
An object beauteous to behold;
Well born, well bred ; I sent him forth
Ingenuous, innocent, and bold:
If things ensued that wanted grace.
As hath been said, they w^ere not base;
And never blush w^as on my face.

Ah! little doth the young'-one dream,
When full of play and childish cares,
What power is in his wildest scream",
Heard by his mother unaw^ares !
He know^s it not, he cannot guess:
Years to a mother bring distress ;
But do not make her love the less.

Neglect me! no, I suffered long

From that ill thought ; and, being blind.

Said, " Pride shall help me in my wrong:

Kind mother have I been, as kind

As ever breathed: " and that is true;

cxxii

I've wet my path with tears like dew,
Weeping for him when no one knew^»

My son, if thou be humbled, poor,
Hopeless of honour and of gain.
Oh! do not dread thy mother's door;
Think not of me with grief and pain;
I now can see with better eyes ;
And worldly grandeur I despise,
And fortune Wth her gifts and lies.

Alas ! the fow^ls of heaven have w^ings.
And blasts of heaven will aid their flight ;
They mount — how short a voyage brings
The w^anderers back to their delight !
Chains tie us dow^n by land and sea;
And w^ishes, vain as mine, may be
All that is left to comfort thee.

Perhaps some dungeon hears thee groan.
Maimed, mangled by inhuman men;
Or thou upon a desert throw^n
Inheritest the lion's den;
Or hast been summoned to the deep.
Thou, thou and all thy mates, to keep
An incommunicable sleep.

I look for ghosts ; but none w^ill force
Their way to me: 'tis falsely said
That there was ever intercourse
Betw^een the living and the dead;
For, surely, then I should have sight
Of him I w^ait for day and night,
With love and longings infinite,
cxxiii p

My apprehensions come in crowds ;
I dread the rustling of the grass ;
The very shadovsrs of the clouds
Have po'wer to shake me as they pass;
I question things and do not find
One that will answer to my mind;
And all the w^orld appears unkind.

Beyond participation lie
My troubles, and beyond relief:
If any chance to heave a sigh,
They pity me, and not my grief.
Then come to me, my son, or send
Some tidings that my woes may end;
I have no other earthly friend!

J^l WATCH, and long have w^atched, writh

calm regret

Yon slowly'- sinking star — immortal sire

(So might he seem) of all the glittering quire !

Blue ether still surrounds him — yet — and yet;

But now the horizon's rocky parapet

Is reached, where, forfeiting nis bright attire,

He burns — transmuted to a sullen fire

That droops and dw^indles and the appointed debt

To the flying moments paid, is seen no more.

Angels and gods ! We struggle w^ith our fate,

While health, pow^er, glory, from their height

decline,

Depressed ; and then extinguished : and our state,

In this, how different, lost star, from thine.

That no to-morrow shall out beams restore !

cxxiv

Jg! HAIL, twilight, sovereign of one peaceful hour!
Not dull art thou as undiscerning night ;
But studious only to remove from sight
Day's mutable distinctions. — Ancient power!
Thus did the waters gleam, the mountains lower,
To the rude Briton, when, in wolf-skin vest
Here roving w^ild, he laid him down to rest
On the bare rock, or through a leafy bower
Looked ere his eyes w^cre closed. By him was seen
The self-same vision w^hich we now behold,
At thy meek bidding, shadowy pow^er! brought
forth ;

These mighty barriers, and the gulf betw^een;
The flood, the stars, — a spectacle as old
As the beginning of the heavens and earth !

J^ HOW clear, how keen, how marvellously

bright

The effluence from yon distant mountain's head,

Which, strew^n w^ith snow^ smooth as the sky can

shed,

Shines like another sun — on mortal sight

Uprisen, as if to check approaching night,

Andallher tw^inkling stars. Who now would tread.

If so he might, yon mountain's glittering head —

Terrestrial, but a surface, by the flight

Of sad mortality's earth-sullying wing,

Unsw^cpt, unstained.'^ Nor shall the aerial pow^ers

Dissolve that beauty, destined to endure.

White, radiant, spotless, exquisitely pure.

Through all vicissitudes, till genial Spring

Has filled the laughing vales with welcome

flow^ers.

cxxv

J^ DARK and more dark the shades of evening

fell;

Thewished'-fof point was reached — but at an hour

When little could be gained from that rich dower

Of prospect, w^hcreof many thousands tell.

Yet did the glowing w^est with marvellous power

Salute us; there stood Indian citadel,

Temple of Greece, and minster with its tow^er

Substantially expressed — a place for bell

Or clock to toll from ! Many a tempting isle.

With groves that never were imagined, lay

'Mid seas how steadfast ! objects all for the eye

Of silent rapture ; but w^e felt the w^hile

We should forget them ; they are of the sky,

And from our earthly memory fade away.

Jdj! THOSE w^ords w^crc uttered as in pensive
mood

We turned, departing from that solemn sight :
A contrast and reproach to gross delight.
And life's unspiritual pleasures daily w^ooed !
But now upon this thought I cannot brood;
It is unstable as a dream of night;
Nor w^ill I praise a cloud, however bright,
Disparaging man's gifts, and proper food.
Grove, isle, with every shape of sky^-built dome.
Though clad in colours beautiful and pure,
Find in the heart of man no natural home :
The immortal mind craves objects that endure :
These cleave to it ; from these it cannot roam.
Nor they from it : their fellowship is secure.

cxxvi

SONNET SUGGESTED BY THE
"PHiEDO" OF PLATO.
Jl^l HEARD (alas! 'twas only in a dream)
Strains — which, as sage antiquity believed,
By waking ears have sometimes been received
Wafted adown the w^ind from lake or stream ;
A most melodious requiem, a supreme
And perfect harmony of notes, achieved
By a fair swan on drow^sy billows heaved.
O'er w^hich her pinions shed a silver gleam.
For is she not the votary of Apollo .'^
And knows she not, singing as he inspires,
That bliss aw^aits her w^hich the ungenial hollow
Of the dull earth partakes not, nor desires (^
Mount, tuneful bird, and join the immortal quires !
She soared — and I aw^oke, struggling in vain to
follow^.

J|! THE shepherd, looking eastw^ard, softly said,

" Bright is thy veil, O Moon, as thou art bright! "

Forthw^ith that little cloud, in ether spread

And penetrated all w^ith tender light,

She cast away, and show^ed her fulgent head

Uncovered; dazzling the beholder's sight

As if to vindicate her beauty's right,

Her beauty thoughtlessly disparaged.

Meanw^hile that veil, removed or thrown aside,

Went floating from her, darkening as it w^ent ;

And a huge mass, to bury or to hide.

Approached this glory of the firmament ;

^A/ ho meekly yields, and is obscured — content

With one calm triumph of a modest pride.

cxxvii

j^"WITH how sad steps, O moon, thou climb'st
the sky,

How silently, and w^ith how w^an a face ! "
Where art thou ^ Thou so often seen on high
Running among the clouds a w^ood-nymph's race !
Unhappy nuns, whose common breath's a sigh
Which they would stifle, move at such a pace !
The northern wind, to call thee to the chase,
Must blow tO'-night his bugle horn. Had I
The power of Merlin, goddess! this should be:
And all the stars, fast as the clouds were riven.
Should sally forth, to keep thee company.
Hurrying and sparkling through the clear blue
heaven ;

But, Cynthia! should to thee the palm be given,
Queen both for beauty and for majesty.

JjJEVEN as a dragon's eye that feels the stress
Of a bedimming sleep, or as a lamp
Sullenly glaring through sepulchral damp.
So burns yon taper 'mid a black recess
Of mountains, silent, dreary, motionless :
The lake below reflects it not; the sky
Muffled in clouds, affords no company
To mitigate and cheer its loneliness.
Yet, round the body of that joyless thing
Which sends so far its melancholy light.
Perhaps are seated in domestic ring
A gay society with faces bright.
Conversing, reading, laughing; — or they sing.
While hearts and voices in the song unite.

CXXVlil

TO SLEEP.

J^eO GENTLE sleep! do they belong to thee.

These fwinklings of oblivion r' Thou dost love

To sit in meekness, like the brooding dove,

A captive never wishing to be free.

This tiresome night, O sleep I thou art to me

A fly, that up and do"wn himself doth shove

Upon a fretful rivulet, now above.

Now on the water vexed w^ith mockery.

I have no pain that calls for patience, no ;

Hence am I cross and peevish as a child :

Am pleased by fits to have thee for my foe.

Yet ever willing to be reconciled :

O gentle creature ! do not use me so,

But once and deeply let me be beguiled.

J|! A FLOCK of sheep that leisurely pass by,
One after one ; the sound of rain, and bees
Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas.
Smooth fields, w^hite sheets of water, and pure
sky;

By turns have all been thought of, yet I lie
Sleepless ; and soon the small birds* melodies
Must hear, first uttered from my orchard trees ;
And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry.
Even thus last night, and two nights more, I lay
So do not let me wear to-night away:
Without thee w^hat is all the morning's wealth ^
Come, blessed barrier between day and day.
Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health !

cxxix

Jl^METHOUGHT I saw the footsteps of a

throne

Which mists and vapours from mine eyes did

shroud —

Nor view of w^ho might sit thereon allow^ed ;

But all the steps and ground about w^ere strow^n

With sights the ruefullest that flesh and bone

Ever put on; a miserable cro\vd,

Sick, hale, old, young, who cried before that cloud,

" Thou art our king, O Death! to thee we groan/'

I seemed to mount those steps; the vapours gave

Smooth w^ay ; and I beheld the face of one

Sleeping alone within a mossy cave.

With her face up to heaven ; that seemed to have

Pleasing remembrance of a thought foregone;

A lovely beauty in a summer grave !

HART^LEAPWELL.

J^THE knight had ridden dow^n from Wensley

Moor

With the slow motion of a summer's cloud,

He turned aside toward a vassal's door,

And " Bring another horse! " he cried aloud.

"Another horse! " — That shout the vassal heard
And saddled his best steed, a comely grey ;
Sir Walter mounted him; he was the third
Which he had mounted on that glorious day.

Joy sparkled in the prancing courser's eyes;
The horse and horseman are a happy pair ;
But, though Sir Walter, like a falcon flies,
There is a doleful silence in the air.
cxxx

A rout this morning left Sir Walter's hall,
That as they galloped made the echoes roar ;
But horse and man are vanished, one and all;
Such race, I think, was never seen before.

Sir Walter, restless as a veering wind,
Calls to the few tired dogs that yet remain:
Blanch, Sw^ift and Music, noblest of their kind.
Follow, and up the weary mountain strain.

The knight hallooed, he cheered and chid them on
With suppliant gestures and upbraidings stern ;
But breath and eyesight fail; and, one by one,
The dogs are stretched among the mountain fern.

Where is the throng, the tumult of the race .''
The bugles that so joyfully were blown ^
— This chase it looks not like an earthly chase;
Sir Walter and the hart are left alone.

The poor hart toils along the mountain^side;
I w^ill not stop to tell how^ far he fled.
Nor w^ill I mention by w^hat death he died;
But now the knight beholds him lying dead.

Dismounting then he leaned against a thorn ;
He had no foUow^er, dog, nor man, nor boy:
He neither cracked his w^hip, nor blew^ his horn,
But gazed upon the spoil w^ith silent joy.

Close to the thorn on w^hich Sir Walter leaned
Stood his dumb partner in this glorious feat;
Weak as a lamb the hour that it is yeaned;
And w^hite w^ith foam as if with cleaving sleet,
cxxxi q

upon his side the hart wras lying stretched :
His nostril touched a spring beneath a hill,
And with the last deep groan his breath had fetched
The waters of the spring were trembling still.

And now, too happy for repose or rest,

(Never had living man such joyful lot !)

Sir Walter walked all round, north, south, and west,

And gazed and gazed upon that darling spot.

And climbing up the hill — (it w^as at least
Four roods of sheer ascent) Sir Walter found
Three several hoof'-marks which the hunted beast
Had left imprinted on the grassy ground.

Sir Walter wiped his face, and cried, "Till now^
Such sight was never seen by human eyes :
Three leaps have borne him from this lofty brow
Dow^n to the very fountain where he lies.

I '11 build a pleasure'-house upon this spot,
And a small arbour, made for rural joy;
'Twill be the traveller's shed, the pilgrim's cot,
A place of love for damsels that are coy.

A cunning artist will I have to frame

A basin for that fountain in the dell !

And they who do make mention of the same.

From this day forth, shall call it Hart-leap Well.

And, gallant stag! to make thy praises known.
Another monument shall here be raised;
Three several pillars, each a rough^-hew^n stone,
And planted w^here thy hoofs the turf have grazed,
cxxxii

And in the summer-time, when days are long,
I will come hither with my paramour;
And with the dancers and the minstrel's song
We w^ill make merry in that pleasant bower.

Till the foundations of the mountains fail
My mansion with its arbour shall endure ; —
The joy of them who till the fields of Swale,
And them w^ho dw^ell among the w^oods of Ure ! "

Then home he went, and left the hart stone-dead.
With breathless nostrils stretched above the spring.
— Soon did the knight perform what he had said ;
And far and w^ide the fame thereof did ring.

Ere thrice the moon into her port had steered,
A cup of stone received the living well;
Three pillars of rude stone Sir Walter reared,
And built a house of pleasure in the dell.

And, near the fountain, flow^ers of stature tall
With trailing plants and trees were intertw^ined, —
Which soon composed a little sylvan hall,
A leafy shelter from the sun and wind.

And thither, w^hen the summer days w^ere long.
Sir Walter led his wondering paramour ;
And w^ith the dancers and the minstrel's song
Made merriment w^ithin that pleasant bow^er.

The knight, Sir Walter, died in course of time,
And his bones lie in his paternal vale. —
But there is matter for a second rhyme.
And I to this w^ould add another tale,
cxxxiii

PART SECOND.
The moving accident is not my trade;
To freeze the blood I have no ready arts :
'Tis my delight, alone in summer shade,
To pipe a simple song for thinking hearts.

As I from Hawes to Richmond did repair,
It chanced that I saw standing in a dell
Three aspens at three corners of a square;
And one, not four yards distant, near a well.

What this imported I could ill divine :
And, pulling now the rein my horse to stop,
I saw three pillars standing in a line, —
The last stonc'-pillar on a dark hill -- top.

The trees w^crc grey, w^ith neither arms nor

head;

Half w^asted the square mound of tawny green ;

So that you Just might say, as then I said,

" Here in old time the hand of man hath been."

I looked upon the hill both far and near,
More doleful place did never eye survey ;
It seemed as if the spring'-time came not here.
And Nature here w^ere w^illing to decay.

I stood in various thoughts and fancies lost.
When one, who w^as in shepherd's garb attired.
Came up the hollow : — him did I accost.
And w^hat this place might be I then inquired.

The shepherd stopped, and that same story told
Which in my former rhyme I have rehearsed,
cxxxiv

"A jolly place," said he, "in times of old!
But something ails it now: the spot is curst.

You see these lifeless stumps of aspen wood —

Some say that they are beeches, others elms —

These w^ere the bow^er; and here a mansion

stood,

The finest palace of a hundred realms!

The arbour does its own condition tell ;
You see the stones, the fountain, and the stream;
But as to the great lodge! you might as well
Hunt half a day for a forgotten dream.

There's neither dog nor heifer, horse nor sheep,
Will wet his lips w^ithin that cup of stone ;
And oftentimes, w^hen all are fast asleep,
This w^ater doth send forth a dolorous groan.

Some say that here a murder has been done.
And blood cries out for blood : but, for my part,
I Vc guessed, w^hen I Ve been sitting in the sun,
That it was all for that unhappy hart.

What thoughts must through the creature's brain
have past !

Even from the topmost stone, upon the steep.
Are but three bounds — and look, sir, at this last —
O master ! it has been a cruel leap.

For thirteen hours he ran a desperate race;

And in my simple mind we cannot tell

What cause the hart might have to love this place,

And come and make his death'-bed near the w^ell.

cxxxv

Here on the grass perhaps asleep he sank,
Lulled by the fountain in the summer '-tide ;
This water was perhaps the first he drank
When he had wandered from his mother's side.

In April here beneath the scented thorn
He heard the birds their morning carols sing ;
And he perhaps, for aught w^e know, was born
Not half a furlong from that self-same spring.

Now, here is neither grass nor pleasant shade ;

The sun on drearier hollow never shone;

So w^ill it be, as I have often said.

Till trees, and stones, and fountain, all are gone."

" Grey'-headed shepherd, thou hast spoken w^ell;
Small difference lies between thy creed and mine:
This beast not unobserved by nature fell ;
His death was mourned by sympathy divine.

The Being that is in the clouds and air.
That is in the green leaves among the groves,
Maintains a deep and reverential care
For the unoffending creatures w^hom he loves.

The pleasurc'-house is dust: — behind, before.
This is no common waste, no common gloom;
But nature, in due course of time, once more
Shall here put on her beauty and her bloom.

She leaves these objects to a slow^ decay,

That w^hat we are, and have been, may be know^n ;

But, at the coming of the milder day.

These monuments shall all be overgrown.

cxxxvi

One lesson, shepherd, let us two divide,
Taught both by what she shows,and w^hat conceals;
Never to blend our pleasure or our pride
With sorrow^ of the meanest thing that feels."

INCIDENT.— CHARACTERISTIC OF A

FAVOURITE DOG.

jJ^^ON his morning rounds the master

Goes to learn how all things fare ;

Searches pasture after pasture,

Sheep and cattle eyes with care;

And, for silence or for talk,

He hath comrades in his walk;

Four dogs, each pair of different breed,

Distinguished two for scent, and two for speed.

See a hare before him started !

— Off they fly in earnest chase;

Every dog is eager'-hearted,

All the four are in the race :

And the hare whom they pursue,

Hath an instinct what to do ;

Her hope is near: no turn she makes;

But, like an arrow, to the river takes.

Deep the river was, and crusted

Thinly by a one night's frost;

But the nimble hare hath trusted

To the ice, and safely crost;

She hath crost, and w^ithout heed

All are following at full speed,

When, lo ! the ice, so thinly spread,

Breaks — and the greyhound, Dart, is overhead !

cxxxvii

Better fate have Prince and Swallow —

See them cleaving to the sport !

Music has no heart to follow^,

Little Music, she stops short.

She hath neither wish nor heart,

Hers is now^ another part:

A loving creature she, and brave !

And fondly strives her struggling friend to save.

From the brink her paw^s she stretches,

Very hands as you would say!

And afflicting moans she fetches.

As he breaks the ice away.

For herself she hath no fears, —

Him alone she sees and hears, —

Makes efforts and complainings ; nor gives o'er

Until her fellow sank and rc'-appeared no more.

FIDELITY.

Jl^A BARKING sound the shepherd hears,

A cry as of a dog or fox ;

He halts — and searches w^ith his eyes

Among the scattered rocks:

And now^ at distance can discern

A stirring in a brake of fern ;

And instantly a dog is seen,

Glancing through that covert green.

The dog is not of mountain breed;

Its motions, too, are wild and shy;

With something, as the shepherd thinks.

Unusual in its cry :

Nor is there any one in sight

cxxxviii

All round, in hollow or on height;
Nor shout, nor whistle strikes his ear;
What is the creature doing here ^

It w^as a cove, a huge recess,

That keeps, till June, December's snow;

A lofty precipice in front,

A silent tarn below^ !

Far in the bosom of Helvellyn,

Remote from public road or dwelling,

Pathw^ay, or cultivated land;

From trace of human foot or hand.

There sometimes doth a leaping fish
Send through the tarn a lonely cheer;
The crags repeat the raven's croak.
In symphony austere ;
Thither the rainbow comes — the cloud —
And mists that spread the flying shroud;
And sunbeams ; and the sounding blast,
That, if it could, w^ould hurry past ;
But that enormous barrier holds it fast.

Not free from boding thoughts, a w^hile
The shepherd stood; then makes his w^ay
Towards the dog o'er rocks and stones
As quickly as he may ;
Nor far had gone before he found
A human skeleton on the ground;
Sad sight! the shepherd with a sigh
Looks round, to learn the history.

From those abrupt and perilous rocks
The man had fallen, that place of fear !
cxxxix t

At length upon the shepherd's mind

It breaks, and alHs clear:

He instantly recalled the name,

And who he was, and whence he came ;

Remembered, too, the very day

On which the traveller passed this way.

But hear a wonder, for whose sake

This lamentable tale I tell !

A lasting monument of words

This wonder merits well.

The dog, which still was hovering nigh,

Repeating the same timid cry.

This dog, had been through three months' space

A dweller in that savage place.

Yes, proof w^as plain that, since the day
When this ill-fated traveller died.
The dog had w^atched about the spot,
Or by his master's side:

How nourished here through such long time
He know^s, who gave that love sublime ;
And gave that strength of feeling, great
Above all human estimate !

RESOLUTION AND INDEPENDENCE.
Jj^THERE was a roaring in the w^ind all night;
The rain came heavily and fell in floods ;
But now the sun is rising calm and bright;
The birds are singing in the distant woods ;
Over his own sweet voice the stocks-dove broods;
The jay makes answ^er as the magpie chatters;
And all the air is filled w^ith pleasant noise of w^aters.
cxl

r

THE hare is running races in her mirth ;

All things that love the sun are out of doors ;

The sky rejoices in the morning's birth ;

The grass is bright with rain'-drops; — on the

moors

The hare is running races in her mirth ;

And with her feet she from the plashy earth

Raises a mist; that, glittering in the sun,

Runs w^ith her all the way, wherever she doth run.

I w^as a traveller then upon the moor;

I saw the hare that raced about w^ith joy ;

I heard the woods and distant w^aters roar;

Or heard them not, as happy as a boy :

The pleasant season did my heart employ:

My old remembrances went from me wholly;

And all the w^ays of men, so vain and melancholy. ^

But, as it sometimes chanceth, from the might

Of joy in minds that can no further go.

As high as wc have mounted in delight

In our dejection do we sink as low;

To me that morning did it happen so ;

And fears and fancies thick upon me came ;

Dim sadness — and blind thoughts, I knew not, nor

could name.

I heard the sky-lark warbling in the sky ;
And I bethought me of the playful hare:
Even such a happy child of earth am I ;
Even as these blissful creatures do I fare;
Far from the world I walk, and from all care ;
But there may come another day to me —
Solitude, pain of heart, distress, and poverty.

cxliii

My whole life I have lived in pleasant thought

As if life's business yvete a summer mood;

As if all needful things would come unsought

To genial faith, still rich in genial good ;

But how can he expect that others should

Build for him, sow for him, and at his call

Love him, who for himself w^ill take no heed at all r'

I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous boy.
The sleepless soul that perished in his pride ;
Of him who walked in glory and in joy
Following his plough, along the mountain-side:
By our own spirits are w^e deified :
We poets in our youth begin in gladness ;
But thereof come in the end despondency and
madness.

Now^, w^hether it were by peculiar grace,

A leading from above, a something given,

Yet it befell that, in this lonely place,

When I with these untoward thoughts had striven.

Beside a pool bare to the eye of heaven

I saw a man before me unawares :

The oldest man he seemed that ever w^ore gf ey

hairs.

As a huge stone is sometimes seen to lie
Couched on the bald top of an eminence;
Wonder to all w^ho do the same espy,
By w^hat means it could thither come, and whence;
So that it seems a thing endued with sense :
Like a sea-beast crawled forth, that on a shelf
Of rock or sand rcposeth, there to sun itself;

cxliv

Such seemed this man, not all alive nor dead,

Nor all asleep — in his extreme old age :

His body was bent double, feet and head

Coming together in life's pilgrimage;

As if some dire constraint of pain, or rage

Of sickness felt by him in times long past,

A more than human weight upon his frame had cast.

Himself he propped, limbs, body, and pale face,
Upon a long grey staff of shaven wood :
And, still as I drew near w^ith gentle pace,
Upon the margin of that moorish flood
Motionless as a cloud the old man stood.
That heareth not the loud winds when they call ;
And moveth all together, if it move at all.

At length, himself unsettling, he the pond

Stirred with his staff, and fixedly did look

Upon the muddy water, which he conned.

As if he had been reading in a book :

And now^ a stranger's privilege I took ;

And, draw^ing to his side, to him did say,

"This morning gives uspromiseof a glorious day.'*

A gentle answ^er did the old man make,

In courteous speech w^hich forth he slow^ly drew^:

And him w^ith further w^ords I thus bespake,

"What occupation do you there pursue.'^

This is a lonesome place for one like you."

Ere he replied, a flash of mild surprise

Broke from the sable orbs of his yet'- vivid eyes.

His w^ords came feebly, from a feeble chest.
But each in solemn order follow^ed each,
cxlv

With something of a lofty utterance dr est —
Choice word and measured phrase, above the reach
Of ordinary men; a stately speech;
Such as grave livers do in Scotland use,
Religious men, who give to God and man their dues.

He told that to these waters he had come

To gather leeches, being old and poor:

Employment hazardous and w^earisomel

And he had many hardships to endure :

From pond to pond he roamed, from moor to moor;

Housing, with God's good help, by choice or

chance ;

And in this w^ay he gaihed an honest maintenance.

The old man still stood talking by my side ;

But now^ his voice to me w^as like a stream

Scarce heard; nor word from w^ord could I divide;

And the whole body of the man did seem

Like one whom I had met with in a dream;

Or like a man from some far region sent,

To give me human strength, by apt admonishment.

My former thoughts returned: the fear that kills;

And hope that is unw^illing to be fed ;

Cold, pain, and labour, and all fleshly ills;

And mighty poets in their misery dead.

— Perplexed, and longing to be comforted,

My question eagerly did I renew,

" How is it that you live, and what is it you do.'^"

He with a smile did then his words repeat;
And said that, gathering leeches, far and wide
He travelled ; stirring thus about his feet
cxlvi

Xhc -waters of the pools where they abide.
" Once I could meet with them on every side;
But they have dw^indled long by slow decay;
Yet still I persevere, and find them where I may."

While he was talking thus, the lonely place.

The old man's shape, and speech — all troubled mc:

In my mind's eye I seemed to see him pace

About the weary moors continually,

Wandering about alone and silently.

While I these thoughts within myself pursued,

He, having made a pause, the same discourse

renewed.

And soon with this he other matter blended,

Cheerfully uttered, with demeanour kind.

But stately in the main, and, when he ended,

I could have laughed myself to scorn to find

In that decrepit man so firm a mind.

"God," said I, "be my help and stay secure;

I *11 think of the leech" gatherer on the lonely moor I "

J(! SCORN not the sonnet; Critic, you have

frowned.

Mindless of its just honours; with this key

Shakspeare unlocked his heart ; the melody

Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarch's wound;

A thousand times this pipe did Tasso sound;

Camoens soothed w^ith it an exile's grief;

The sonnet glittered a gay myrtle leaf

Amid the cypress with which Dante crowned

His visionary brow: a glow'-worm lamp.

It cheered mild Spenser, called from Faery '-land

cxlvii

Xo struggle through dark ways; and, when a damp
Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand
The thiiig became a trumpet; whence he blew
Soul'-animating strains — alas, too few^l

COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER

BRIDGE, SEPTEMBERS, MDCCCIL

J5^ EARTH has not any thing to show more fair:

Dull w^ould he be of soul w^ho could pass by

A sight so touching in its majesty:

This City now doth, like a garment, wear

The beauty of the morning; silent, bare.

Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie

Open unto the fields, and to the sky;

All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.

Never did sun more beautifully steep

In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill;

Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!

The river glideth at his own sweet will :

Dear God! the very houses seem asleep ;

And all that mighty heart is lying still !

COMPOSED BY THE SEA-SIDE, NEAR
CALAIS, AUGUST MDCCCIL
JjiFAIR star of evening, splendour of the w^est,
Star of my country! — on the horizon's brink
Thou hangcst, stooping, as might seem, to sink
On England's bosom; yet well pleased to rest,
Meanw^hile, and be to her a glorious crest
Conspicuous to the nations. Thou, I think,
Should'st be my country's emblem ; and should'st
wink,
cxlviii

Bright star! with laughter on her banners, drest
In thy fresh beauty, i here ! that dusky spot
Beneath thee, it is England; there it lies.
Blessings be on you both ! one hope, one lot,
One life, one glory! — I, with many a fear
For my dear country, many heartfelt sighs,
Among men who do not love her, linger here.

J||!WHEN I have borne in memory w^hat has

tamed

Great nations, how^ ennobling thoughts depart

When men change sw^ords for ledgers, and desert

The student's bower for gold, some fears unnamed

I had, my country — am I to be blamed.'^

Now^, w^hen I thmk of thee, and w^hat thou art,

Verily, in the bottom of my heart.

Of those unfilial fears I am ashamed.

For dearly must we prize thee ; we who find

In thee a bulwark for the cause of men;

And I by my affection was beguiled :

What w^onder if a poet now and then,

Among the many movements of his mind,

Felt for thee as a lover or a child!

LONDON, MDCCCII.

J|l MILTON ! thoushould'stbelivingat this hour:

England hath need of thee; she is a fen

Of stagnant w^aters; altar, sword, and pen.

Fireside, the heroic w^ealth of hall and bow^er,

Have forfeited their ancient English dow^er

Of inward happiness. We are selfish men;

Oh ! raise us up, return to us again;

cxiix s

And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power.

Thy soul "was like a star, and dwelt apart:

Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea;

Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free,

So didst thou travel on life's common way,

In cheerful godliness ; and yet thy heart

The low^liest duties on herself did lay.

SUGGESTED BY MR. W. WESTALL'S

VIEWS OF THE CAVES, ETC. IN YORK^

SHIRE.

j^PURE element of waters! w^heresoe'er

Thou dost forsake thy subterranean haunts.

Green herbs, bright flow^ers, and berry ^-bearing

plants.

Rise into life and in thy train appear :

And, through the sunny portion of the year,

Sw^ift insects shine, thy hovering pursuivants :

And, if thy bounty fail, the forest pants ;

And hart and hind and hunter with his spear

Languish and droop together. Nor unfelt

In man's perturbed soul thy sway benign;

And, haply, far w^ithin the marble belt

Of/central earth, where tortured spirits pine

For grace and goodness lost, thy murmurs melt

Their anguish, and they blend sweet songs with

thine.

TO THE TORRENT AT THE DEVIL'S
BRIDGE,NORTHWALES,MDCCCXXIV.
J^HOW art thou named .^ In search of w^hat
strange land,
cl

From what huge height, descending ^ Can such

force

Of waters issue from a British source,

Or hath not Pindus fed thee, where the band

Of patriots scoop their freedom out, with hand

Desperate as thine ^ Or come the incessant shocks

From that young stream, that smites the throbbing

rocks,

Of Viamalar^ There I seem to stand.

As in life's morn; permitted to behold.

From the dread chasm, woods climbing above

woods.

In pomp that fades not; everlasting snow^s;

And skies that ne'er relinquish their repose ;

Such power possess the family of floods

Over the minds of poets, young or old!

J|! IT is not to be thought of that the flood
Of British freedom, which, to the open sea
Of the world's praise, from dark antiquity
Hath flow^ed, ' ' with pomp of waters, unwithstood,"
Roused though it be full often to a mood
Which spurns the check of salutary bands.
That this most famous stream in bogs and sands
Should perish; and to evil and to good
Be lost for ever. In our halls is hung
Armoury of the invincible knights of old ;
We must be free or die, who speak the tongue
That Shakspeare spake ; the faith and morals hold
Which Milton held. — In every thing we are sprung
Of earth's first blood, have titles manifold.

cli

NOVEMBER, MDCCCVL
JUtANOTHER year !— another deadly blow !
Another mighty empire overthrown !
And we are left, or shall be left, alone;
The last that dare to struggle w^ith the foe.
'Tis well ! from this day forw^ard w^e shall know
That in ourselves our safety must be sought;
Xhat by our own right hands it must be wrought ;
That we must stand unpropped, or be laid low.
O dastard w^hom such foretaste doth not cheer !
We shall exult, if they w^ho rule the land
Be men who hold its many blessings dear,
Wise, upright, valiant; not a servile band.
Who arc to judge of danger w^hich they fear,
And honour which they do not understand.

THOUGHT OF A BRITON ON THE
SUBJUGATION OF SWITZERLAND.
j^TWO voices arc there ; one is of the sea.
One of the mountains ; each a mighty voice :
In both from age to age thou didst rejoice.
They were thy chosen music. Liberty !
There came a tyrant, and with holy glee
Thou fought'st against him ; but hast vainly striven ;
Thou from thy Alpine holds at length art driven.
Where not a torrent murmurs heard by thee.
Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft:
Then cleave. Oh cleave to that which still is left ;
For, high'-souled maid, what sorrow would it be
That mountain floods should thunder as before.
And ocean bellow^ from his rocky shore,
And neither aw^ful voice be heard by thee !

clii

ON THE EXTINCTION OF THE
VENETIAN REPUBLIC.
J|!ONCE did she hold the gorgeous east in fee;
And was the safeguard of the west: the worth
Of Venice did not fall below^ her birth,
Venice, the eldest child of Liberty.
She w^as a maiden city, bright and free ;
No guile seduced, no force could violate ;
And, w^hen she took unto herself a mate.
She must espouse the everlasting sea.
And what if she had seen those glories fade,
Those titles vanish, and that strength decay ;
Yet shall some tribute of regret be paid
When her long life hath reached its final day :
Men are we, and must grieve when even the shade
Of that which once w^as great is passed aw^ay.

TO TOUSSAINT L'OUVERTURE.
J^TOUSSAINT,the most unhappy man of men!
Whether the whistling rustic tend his plough
Within thy hearing, or thy head be now
Pillowed in some deep dungeon's earless den; — '
O miserable chieftain ! where and when
Wilt thou find patience ! Yet die not ; do thou
Wear rather in thy bonds a cheerful brow:
Though fallen thyself, never to rise again.
Live, and take comfort. Thou hast left behind
Powers that will work for thee; air, earth, and skies ;
There's not a breathing of the common wind
That will forget thee ; thou hast great allies ;
Thy friends are exultations, agonies.
And love, and man's unconquerable mind.

cliii

MUTABILITY.

J^FROM low to high doth dissolution climb,

And sink from high to low, along a scale

Of awful notes, whose concord shall not fail ;

A musical but melancholy chime,

Which they can hear who meddle not with crime,

Nor avarice, nor over'-anxious care.

Truth fails not ; but her outward forms that bear

The longest date do melt like frosty rime,

That in the morning whitened hill and plain

And is no more ; drop like the tower sublime

Of yesterday, w^hich royally did wear

His crow^n of weeds, but could not even sustain

Some casual shout that broke the silent air,

Or the unimaginable touch of time.

J|iTHE w^orld is too much w^ith us ; late and soon.

Getting and spending, we lay waste our pow^ers :

Little we see in Nature that is ours ;

We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon !

This sea that bares her bosom to the moon ;

The winds that will be how^ling at all hours,

And are up'-gathered now like sleeping flowers;

For this, for every thing, w^e are out of tune ;

It moves us not. — Great God ! I 'd rather be

A Pagan suckled in a creed outw^orn ;

So might I, standing on this pleasant lea.

Have glimpses that w^ould make me less forlorn ;

Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea ;

Or hear old Triton blow^ his w^reathcd horn.

cliv

SONG AT THE FEAST OF BROUGHAM
CASTLE, UPON THE RESTORATION
OF LORD CLIFFORD, THE SHEPHERD,
TO THE ESTATES AND HONOURS OF
HIS ANCESTORS.

j^HIGH in the breathless hall the minstrel sate,
And Eamont's murmur mingled vsrith the song. —
The vsrords of ancient time I thus translate,
A festal strain that hath been silent long: —

" From town to town, from tow^er to tow^er,

The red rose is a gladsome flower.

Her thirty years of winter past.

The red rose is revived at last;

She lifts her head for endless spring,

For everlasting blossoming:

Both roses flourish, red and white:

In love and sisterly delight

The two that were at strife are blended.

And all old troubles now are ended. —

Joy! joy to both ! but most to her

Who is the flower of Lancaster!

Behold her how she smiles to-day

On this great throng, this bright array !

Fair greeting doth she send to all

From every corner of the hall ;

But chiefly from above the board

Where sits in state our rightful lord,

A Clifford to his ow^n restored!

"They came with banner, spear, and shield;
And it w^as proved in Bosw^orth'-field.
Not long the avenger w^as w^ithstood —
Earth helped him w^ith the cry of blood :
civ

St. George was for us, and the might
Of blessed angels crowned the right.
Loud voice the land has uttered forth,
We loudest in the faithful north :
Our fields rejoice, our mountains ring,
Our streams proclaim a welcoming;
Our strong'-abodes and castles see
The glory of their loyalty.

" How glad is Skipton at this hour —
Though she is but a lonely tower;
To vacancy and silence left;
Of all her guardian sons bereft —
Knight, squire, yeoman, page or groom:
We have them at the feast of Brough'm.
How glad Pendragon — though the sleep
Of years be on her ! — she shall reap
A taste of this great pleasure, viewing
As in a dream her own renew^ing.
Rejoiced is Brough, right glad, I deem,
Beside her little humble stream;
And she that keepeth watch and w^ard
Her statelier Eden's course to guard;
They both are happy at this hour,
Though each is but a lonely tow^er: —
But here is perfect joy and pride
For one fair house by Eamont's side,
This day, distinguished without peer,
To see her master and to cheer —
Him, and his lady^mother dear !

" Oh ! it was a time forlorn
When the fatherless was born —
Give her w^ings that she may fly,
clvi

Or she sees her infant die !
Swords that are with slaughter w^ild
Hunt the mother and the child.
Who w^ill take them from the light ^
— Yonder is a man in sight —
Yonder is a house — but where ^
No, they must not enter there.
To the caves, and to the brooks,
To the clouds of heaven she looks ;
She is speechless, but her eyes
Pray in ghostly agonies.
Blissful Mary, mother mild,
Maid and mother undefiled,
Save a mother and her child !

" Now^ wrho is he that bounds w^ith joy

On Carrock's side, a shepherd-boy ^

No thoughts hath he but thoughts that pass

Light as the wind along the grass.

Can this be he who hither came

In secret, like a smothered flame ^

O'er w^hom such thankful tears were shed

For shelter, and a poor man's bread!

God loves the child; and God hath willed

That those dear words should be fulfilled,

The lady's words, when forced away

The last she to her babe did say :

' My ow^n, my ow^n, thy fellow^- guest

I may not be ; but rest thee, rest.

For low^ly shepherd's life is best!'

" Alas! when evil men are strong

No life is good, no pleasure long.

The boy must part from Mosedale's groves,

clvii t

And leave Blencathara's rugged coves,
And quit the flowers that summer brings
To Glenderamakin's lofty springs;
Must vanish, and his careless cheer
Be turned to heaviness and fear.
— Give Sir Lancelot Threlkeld praise!
Hear it, good man, old in days!
Thou tree of covert and of rest
For this young bird that is distrest;
Among thy branches safe he lay.
And he was free to sport and play,
When falcons w^ere abroad for prey.

"A recreant harp, that sings of fear

And heaviness in Clifford's ear !

I said, w^hen evil men are strong,

No life is good, no pleasure long,

A w^eak and cowardly untruth !

Our Clifford was a happy youth.

And thankful through a w^eary time,

That brought him up to manhood's prime.

— Again he wanders forth at will.

And tends a flock from hill to hill :

His garb is humble; ne'er was seen

Such garb w^ith such a noble mien ;

Among the shepherd-grooms no mate

Hath he, a child of strength and state !

Yet lacks not friends for solemn glee

And a cheerful company,

That learned of him submissive ways.

And comforted his private days.

To his side the fallow'-deer

Came, and rested without fear;

The eagle, lord of land and sea,

clviii

Stooped down to pay him fealty;

And both the undying fish that swim

Through Bowscale Tarn did wait on him;

The pair were servants of his eye

In their immortality;

They moved about in open sight

To and fro, for his delight.

He knew the rocks which angels haunt

On the mountains visitant;

He hath kenned them taking wing :

And the caves where faeries sing

He hath entered; and been told

By voices how men lived of old.

Among the heavens his eye can see

Face of thing that is to be ;

And, if men report him right,

He can wrhisper words of might.

— Now another day is come.

Fitter hope, and nobler doom;

He hath thrown aside his crook,

And hath buried deep his book ;

Armour rusting in his halls

On the blood of Clifford calls; —

' Quell the Scot,* exclaims the Lance —

Bear me to the heart of France,

Is the longing of the shield —

Tell thy name, thou trembling field;

Field of death, where'er thou be.

Groan thou with our victory I

Happy day, and mighty hour.

When our shepherd in his pow^er.

Mailed and horsed, with lance and sword.

To his ancestors restored

Like a re^appearing star,

clix

Like a glory from afar,

First shall head the flock of war ! "

Alas! the fervent harper did not know
That for a tranquil soul the lay was framed,
Who, long compelled in humble w^alks to go.
Was softened into feeling, soothed, and tamed.

Love had he found in huts w^here poor men lie ;
His daily teachers had been woods and rills,
The silence that is in the starry sky,
The sleep that is among the lonely hills.

In him the savage virtue of the race.
Revenge, and all ferocious thoughts w^ere dead:
Nor did he change ; but kept in lofty place
The w^isdom w^hich adversity had bred.

Glad were the vales, and every cottage-hearth ;
The shepherd-lord was honoured more and more;
And, ages after he was laid in earth,
"The good Lord Clifford" w^as the name he bore.

ODE TO LYCORIS.

j^ AN age hath been w^hen earth w^as proud

Of lustre too intense

To be sustained ; and mortals bowed

The front in self-defence.

Who then, if Dian's crescent gleamed,

Or Cupid's sparkling arrow streamed

While on the w^ing the urchin played.

Could fearlessly approach the shade .'^

— Enough for one soft vernal day,

clx

If I, a bard of ebbing time, '

And nurtured in a fickle clime,

May haunt this horned bay;

Whose amorous water multiplies

The flitting halcyon's vivid dyes ;

And smooths her liquid breast — to show

These sw^an'-like specks of mountain snow^,

White as the pair that slid along the plains

Of heaven, when Venus held the reins !

In youth w^e love the darksome law^n

Brushed by the owlet's wing;

Then, twilight is preferred to dawn,

And autumn to the spring.

Sad fancies do we then affect,

In luxury of disrespect

To our own prodigal excess

Of too familiar happiness.

Lycoris (if such name befit

Thee, thee my life's celestial sign!)

When nature marks the year's decline.

Be ours to welcome it;

Pleased w^ith the harvest hope that runs

Before the path of milder suns;

Pleased while the sylvan world displays

Its ripeness to the feeding gaze ;

Pleased when the sullen winds resound the knell

Of the resplendent miracle.

But something w^hispers to my heart
That, as w^e downw^ard tend,
Lycoris ! life requires an art
To which our souls must bend;
A skill — to balance and supply;
clxi

And, crc the flowing fount be dry,

As soon it must, a sense to sip,

Or drink, -with no fastidious lip.

Then welcome, above all, the guest

Whose smiles, diffused o'er land and sea,

Seem to recall the deity

Of youth into the breast:

May pensive autumn ne'er present

A claim to her disparagement !

While blossoms and the budding spray

Inspire us in our own decay;

Still, as we nearer draw to life's dark goal.

Be hopeful spring the favourite of the soul!

CHARACTER OF THE HAPPY
WARRIOR.

J^WHO is the happy warrior .'^ Who is he
That every man in arms should wish to be ^
— It is the generous spirit, who, when brought
Among the tasks of real life, hath wrought
Upon the plan that pleased his childish thought :
Whose high endeavours are an inw^ard light
That makes the path before him always bright :
Who, with a natural instinct to discern
What knowledge can perform, is diligent to learn;
Abides by this resolve, and stops not there.
But makes his moral being his prime care ;
Who, doomed to go in company with pain.
And fear, and bloodshed, miserable train !
Turns his necessity to glorious gain ;
In face of these doth exercise a power
Which is our human nature's highest dower;
Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves
clxii

Of their bad influence, and their good receives :

By objects, which might force the soul to abate

Her feeling, rendered more compassionate;

Is placable — because occasions rise

So often that demand such sacrifice ;

More skilful in self'-knowledge, even more pure,

As tempted more; more able to endure.

As more exposed to suffering and distress ;

Thence, also, more alive to tenderness.

— *Tis he whose law is reason ; who depends

Upon that law as on the best of friends ;

Whence, in a state where men are tempted still

To evil for a guard against worse ill,

And what in quality or act is best

Doth seldom on a right foundation rest,

He fixes good on good alone, and owes

To virtue every triumph that he knows :

— Who, if he rise to station of command,

Rises by open means ; and there will stand

On honourable terms, or else retire,

And in himself possess his own desire ;

Who comprehends his trust, and to the same

Keeps faithful with a singleness of aim;

And therefore does not stoop, nor lie in w^ait

For wealth, or honours, or for w^orldly state;

Whom they must follow; on whose head must

fall.

Like showers of manna, if they come at all :

Whose pow^ers shed round him in the common

strife.

Or mild concerns of ordinary life,

A constant influence, a peculiar grace;

But who, if he be called upon to face

Some aw^ful moment to which Heaven has joined

clxiii

Great issues, good or bad for human kind,

Is happy as a lover; and attired

With sudden brightness, like a man inspired ;

And, through the heat of conflict, keeps the law

In calmness made, and sees what he foresaw^ ;

Or if an unexpected call succeed.

Come when it will, is equal to the need :

— He who, though thus endued as w^ith a sense

And faculty for storm and turbulence,

Is yet a soul whose master'-bias leans

To homefelt pleasures and to gentle scenes ;

Sweet images ! w^hich, w^heresoc'er he be,

Are at his heart ; and such fidelity

It is his darling passion to approve;

More brave for this, that he hath much to love : —

'Tis, finally, the man, who, lifted high,

Conspicuous object in a nation's eye,

Or left unthought-of in obscurity, —

Who, with a toward or untoward lot,

Prosperous or adverse, to his w^ish or not —

Plays, in the many games of life, that one

Where w^hat he most doth value must be w^on :

Whom neither shape of danger can dismay.

Nor thought of tender happiness betray ;

Who, not content that former wrorth stand fast,

Looks forward, persevering to the last.

From well to better, daily sclf'-surpast:

Who, whether praise of him must w^alk the earth

For ever, and to noble deeds give birth.

Or he must go to dust w^ithout his fame,

And leave a dead unprofitable name —

Finds comfort in himself and in his cause ;

And, while the mortal mist is gathering, draws

His breath in confidence of Heaven's applause:

clxiv

This is the happy warrior ; this is he
Whom every man in arms should v/ish to be.

ODE TO DUTY.

J|! STERN daughter of the voice of God!

O duty! if that name thou love

Who art a light to guide, a rod

To check the erring, and reprove ;

Thou, who art victory and law

When empty terrors overawe ;

From vain temptations dost set free;

And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity !

There are who ask not if thine eye

Be on them; who, in love and truth,

Where no misgiving is, rely

Upon the genial sense of youth :

Glad hearts! w^ithout reproach or blot;

Who do thy work, and know it not:

Long may the kindly impulse last

But thou, if they should totter, teach them to stand

fast.

Serene will be our days and bright,

And happy w^ill our nature be,

When love is an unerring light,

And joy its own security.

And they a blissful course may hold

Even now, who, not unwisely bold,

Live in the spirit of this creed ;

Yet seek thy firm support, according to their

need.

clxv u

I, loving freedom, and untried;

No sport of every random gust,

Yet being to myself a guide,

Too blindly have reposed my trust :

And oft, when in my heart vsras heard

Thy timelj. mandate, I deferred

Xhe task, in smoother walks to stray ;

But thee I now^ vsrould serve more strictly, if I may.

Through no disturbance of my soul.

Or strong compunction in me wrought,

I supplicate for thy control ;

But in the quietness of thought:

Me this unchartered freedom tires ;

I feel the weight of chance-desires :

My hopes no more must change their name,

I long for a repose that ever is the same.

Stern Law^givcr! yet thou dost wrear

The Godhead's most benignant grace;

Nor know we anything so fair

As is the smile upon thy face :

Flow^ers laugh before thee on their beds

And fragrance in thy footing treads ;

Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong;

And the most ancient heavens, through Thee, arc

fresh and strong.

To humbler functions, aw^ful Pow^er !
I call thee: I myself commend
Unto thy guidance from this hour ;
Oh, let my w^eakness have an end !
Give unto me, made lowrly w^ise.
The spirit of self-sacrifice;
clxvi

The confidence of reason give ;

And in the light of truth thy bondman let me live!

DION.

Jl^FAIR is the s'svan, whose majesty, prevailing

O'er breezeless water, on Locarno's lake,

Bears him on while proudly sailing

He leaves behind a moon-illumined wake:

Behold! the mantling spirit of reserve

Fashions his neck into a goodly curve ;

An arch throw^n back between luxuriant wings

Of whitest garniture, like fir- tree boughs

To which, on some unruffled morning, clings

A flaky weight of w^intcr's purest snow^s!

— Behold! — as w^ith a gushing impulse heaves

That dow^ny prow, and softly cleaves

The mirror or the crystal flood,

Vanish inverted hill, and shadowy wood.

And pendent rocks, where'er, in gliding state,

Winds the mute creature w^ithout visible mate

Or rival, save the queen of night

Show^ering dow^n a silver light,

From heaven, upon her chosen favourite!

So pure, so bright, so fitted to embrace

Where'er he turned, a natural grace

Of haughtiness without pretence.

And to unfold a still magnificence,

Was princely Dion, in the pow^er

And beauty of his happier hour.

Nor less the homage that was seen to w^ait.

On Dion's virtues, w^hen the lunar beam

Of Plato's genius, from its lofty sphere,

clxix

Fell round him in the grove of Academe,
Softening their inbred dignity austere —
That he, not too elate
With self'-sufficing solitude,
But with majestic lowliness endued,
Might in the universal bosom reign,
And from affectionate observance gain
Help, under every change of adverse fate.

Five thousand warriors — O the rapturous day!

Each crowned w^ith flow^ers, and armed wth spear

and shield.

Or ruder weapon which their course might yield,

Xo Syracuse advance in bright array.

Who leads them on ^ — Xhe anxious people see

Long-'cxiled Dion marching at their head,

He also crowned w^ith flow^ers of Sicily,

And in a white, far-beaming corselet clad !

Pure transport undisturbed by doubt or fear

Xhe gazers feel; and, rushing to the plain.

Salute those strangers as a holy train

Or blest procession (to the immortals dear)

Xhat brought their precious liberty again.

Lo ! w^hen the gates are entered, on each hand,

Down the long street, rich goblets filled w^ith w^ine

In seemly order stand,

On tables set, as if for rites divine; —

And, as the great deliverer marches by,

He looks on festal ground with fruits bestrown ;

And flowers are on his person throw^n

In boundless prodigality;

Nor doth the general voice abstain from prayer,

Invoking Dion's tutelary care,

As if a very deity he w^ere !

clxx

Mourn, hills and groves of Attica! and mourn
Ilissus, bending o'er thy classic urn !
Mourn, and lament for him whose spirit dreads
Your once sweet memory, studious walks and
shades !

For him w^ho to divinity aspired,
Not on the breath of popular applause.
But through dependence on the sacred law^s
Framed in the schools w^herew^isdom dw^elt retired,
Intent to trace the ideal path of right
(More fair than heaven's broad causeway paved
with stars)

Which Dion learned to measure with delight; —
But He hath overleaped the eternal bars ;
And, following guides w^hose craft holds no consent
With aught that breathes the ethereal element.
Hath stained the robes of civil pow^er w^ith blood,
Unjustly shed, though for the public good.
Whence doubts that came too late, and wishes vain.
Hollow excuses, and triumphant pain;
And oft his cogitations sink as low-
As, through the abysses of a joyless heart.
The heaviest plummet of despair can go —
But whence that sudden check .'^ that fearful start!
He hears an uncouth sound —
Anon his lifted eyes

Saw, at a long'-drawn gallery's dusky bound,
A shape of more than mortal size
And hideous aspect, stalking round and round !
A woman's garb the phantom w^ore.
And fiercely swept the marble floor, —
Like Auster w^hirling to and fro.
His force on Caspian foam to try;
Or Boreas when he scours the snow
clxxi

That skins the plains of Thcssaly,
Or "when aloft on Maenalus he stops
His flight, 'mid eddying pine-tree tops !

So, but from toil less sign of profit reaping,

The sullen spectre to her purpose bowed.

Sweeping — vehemently sweeping —

No pause admitted, no design avowed !

*' Avaunt, inexplicable guest! — avaunt,"

Exclaimed the chieftain — "let me rather see

The coronal that coiling vipers make;

The torch that flames with many a lurid flake,

And the long train of doleful pageantry

Which they behold, whom vengeful furies haunt ;

Who, while they struggle from the scourge to flee,

Move w^here the blasted soil is not unworn,

And, in their anguish, bear what other minds have

borne!"

But shapes, that come not at an earthly call.

Will not depart when mortal voices bid ;

Lords of the visionary eye whose lid,

Once raised, remains aghast, and will not fall !

Ye gods, thought he, that servile implement

Obeys a mystical intent !

Your minister would brush away

The spots that to my soul adhere;

But should she labour night and day.

They will not, cannot disappear;

Whence angry perturbations, — and that look

Which no philosophy can brook !

Ill-fated chief! there are w^hose hopes are built
Upon the ruins of thy glorious name;
clxxii

Who, through the portal of one moment's guilt,

Pursue thee with their deadly aim !

O matchless perfidy! portentous lust

Of monstrous crime! — that horrors-striking blade,

Drawn in defiance of the gods, hath laid

The noble Syracusan low in dust !

Shuddered the walls — the marble city wept —

And sylvan places heaved a pensive sigh ;

But in calm peace the appointed victim slept,

As he had fallen in magnanimity;

Of spirit too capacious to require

That destiny her course should change; too just

To his own native greatness to desire

That wretched boon, days lengthened by mistrust.

So were the hopeless troubles, that involved

The soul of Dion, instantly dissolved.

Released from life and cares of princely state,

He left this moral grafted on his fate ;

" Him only pleasure leads, and peace attends,

Him, only him, the shield of Jove defends.

Whose means arc fair and spotless as his ends."

JglWITH ships the sea w^as sprinkled far and nigh,

Like stars in heaven, and joyously it show^ed;

Some lying fast at anchor in the road.

Some veering up and down, one knew not why.

A goodly vessel did I then espy

Come like a giant from a haven broad ;

And lustily along the bay she strode.

Her tackling rich, and of apparel high.

This ship was nought to me, nor I to her,

Yet I pursued her with a lover's look ;

This ship to all the rest did I prefer:

clxxiii

When will she turn, and whither ^ she w^ill brook
No tarrying; wrhere she comes the winds must stir:
On w^ent she, and due north her journey took.

j^WHERE lies the land to w^hich yon ship must

Festively she puts forth in trim array,

As vigorous as a lark at break of day :

Is she for tropic suns, or polar snow ^

What boots the inquiry r — Neither friend nor foe

She cares for; let her travel w^here she may.

She finds familiar names, a beaten way

Ever before her, and a w^ind to blow.

Yet still I ask, what haven is her mark ^

And, almost as it was when ships were rare,

(From time to time, like pilgrims, here and there

Crossing the w^aters) doubt, and something dark,

Of the old sea some reverential fear.

Is with me at thy farewell, joyous bark !

COMPOSED BY THE SIDE OF

GRASMERE LAKE.

j^ CLOUDS, lingering yet, extend in solid bars

Through the grey w^est; andlo! these waters, steeled

By breezeless air to smoothest polish, yield

A vivid repetition of the stars ;

Jove, Venus, and the ruddy crest of Mars

Amid his fellows beauteously revealed

At happy distance from earth's groaning field.

Where ruthless mortals wage incessant wars.

Is it a mirror ^ — or the nether sphere

Opening to view the abyss in which she feeds

clxxiv

Her own calm fires r' — But list ! a voice is near;

Great Pan himself low-whispering through the

reeds,

" Be thankful, thou; for, if unholy deeds

Ravage the w^orld, tranquillity is here ! "

J|8 IT is a beauteous evening, calm and free,

The holy time is quiet as a nun

Breathless with adoration ; the broad sun

Is sinking down in its tranquillity;

The gentleness of heaven broods o'er the sea:

Listen ! the mighty Being is aw^ake.

And doth w^ith his eternal motion make

A sound like thunder — everlastingly.

Dear child ! dear girl ! that walkest w^ith me here,

If thou appear untouched by solemn thought,

Thy nature is not therefore less divine :

Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year ;

And w^orshipp'st at the temple's inner shrine,

God being w^ith thee w^hen w^e know^ it not.

JjiTHE stars are mansions built by nature's hand,
And, haply, there the spirits of the blest
Dwell, clothed in radiance, their immortal vest;
Huge ocean shows, within his yellow strand,
A habitation marvellously planned.
For life to occupy in love and rest ;
All that we see — is dome, or vault, or nest,
Or fortress, reared at nature's sage command.
Glad thought for every season ! but the spring
Gave it while cares were weighing on my heart,
'Mid song of birds, and insects murmuring;
clxxv X

And while the youthful year's prolific art —

Of bud, leaf, blade, and flower — was fashioning

Abodes where self -disturbance hath no part.

FROM THE ITALIAN OF MICHAEL

ANGELO: TO THE SUPREME BEING.

j^THE prayers Imakew^ill then be sw^eet indeed

If Thou the spirit give by which I pray:

My unassisted heart is barren clay.

That of its native self can nothing feed :

Of good and pious w^orks Thou art the seed,

That quickens only w^here Thou say'st it may:

Unless Thou show^ to us Thine ow^n true w^ay

No man can find it : Father ! Thou must lead.

Do Thou, then, breathe those thoughts into my

mind

By wrhich such virtue may in me be bred

That in Thy holy footsteps I may tread;

The fetters of my tongue do Thou unbind,

That I may have the pow^cr to sing of Thee,

And sound thy praises everlastingly.

JjeTRANQUILLITY! the sovereign aim wert

thou

In heathen schools of philosophic lore;

Heart-stricken by stern destiny of yore

The tragic muse thee served w^ith thoughtful vow^;

And w^hat of hope Elysium could allow^

Was fondly seized by sculpture, to restore

Peace to the mourner. But when He w^ho wore

The crow^n of thorns around His bleeding brow^

Warmed our sad being w^ith His glorious light,

clxxvi

Then arts which still had drawn a softening

grace

From shadowy fountains of the infinite

Communed with that idea face to face :

And move around it now^ as planets run,

Each in its orbit round the central sun.

J|!IN my mind's eye a temple, like a cloud
Slowly surmounting some mvidious hill,
Rose out of darkness : the bright work stood still ;
And might of its own beauty have been proud.
But it w^as fashioned and to God w^as vow^ed
By virtues that diffused, in every part,
Spirit divine through forms of human art:
Faith had her arch — her arch, w^hen winds blow-
loud.

Into the consciousness of safety thrilled;
And Love her tow^ers of dread foundation laid
Under the grave of things ; Hope had her spire
Star'-high, and pointing still to something higher;
Xrembling I gazed, but heard a voice — it said,
" Hell'-gates are powerless phantoms w^hen wc
build."

LINES COMPOSED AT GRASMERE,
DURING A WALK ONE EVENING,
AFTER A STORMY DAY, THE AUTHOR
HAVING TUST READ IN ANEWSPAPER
THATTHE DISSOLUTION OF MR. FOX
WAS HOURLY EXPECTED.
jJglLOUD is the vale ! the voice is up
With which she speaks w^hen storms are gone,
clxxvii

A mighty unison of streams !
Of alfhcf voices, one !

Loud is the vale; — this inland depth
In peace is roaring like the sea;
Yon star upon the mountain-top
Is listening quietly.

Sad was I, even to pain deprest,
Importunate and heavy load I
The comforter hath found me here,
Upon this lonely road ;

And many thousands now are sad —
Wait the ifulfilment of their fear ;
For he must die who is their stay,
Their glory disappear.

A power is passing from the earth
To breathless nature's dark abyss;
But when the mighty pass away
What is it more than this —

That man, w^ho is from God sent forth.
Doth yet again to God return ^ —
Such ebb and flow must ever be.
Then w^hercforc should we mourn ^

ELEGIAC STANZAS, SUGGESTED BY

A PICTURE OF PEELE CASTLE, IN A

STORM, PAINTED BY SIR GEORGE

BEAUMONT.

j^I WAS thy neighbour once, thou rugged pile !

clxxviii

Four summer weeks I dwelt in sight of thee :
I saw thee every day; and all the while
Thy form w^as sleeping on a glassy sea.

So pure the sky, so quiet w^as the air !
So like, so very like, was day to day !
Whene'er I looked, thy image still was there ;
It trembled, but it never passed away.

How perfect was the calm ! it seemed no sleep ;
No mood, which season takes away, or brings :
I could have fancied that the mighty deep
Was even the gentlest of all gentle things.

Ah ! then, if mine had been the painter's hand.
To express what then I saw ; and add the gleam,
The light that never w^as, on sea or land,
The consecration, and the poet's dream;

I would have planted thee, thou hoary pile
Amid a w^orld how^ different from this !
Beside a sea that could not cease to smile;
On tranquil land, beneath a sky of bliss.

A picture had it been of lasting ease,
Elysian quiet, w^ithout toil or strife ;
No motion but the moving tide, a breeze,
Or merely silent nature's breathing life.

Such, in the fond illusion of my heart.

Such picture would I at that time have made :

And seen the soul of truth in every part,

A stedfast peace that might not be betrayed.

clxxix

So once it would have been, — 'tis so no more;
I have submitted to a new control :
A pow^er is gone, w^hich nothing can restore ;
A deep distress hath humanised my soul.

Not for a moment could I now^ behold
A smiling sea, and be what I have been :
T'he feeling of my loss w^ill ne'er be old ;
This, which I know, I speak with mind serene.

Then, Beaumont, friend I w^ho w^ould have been the

friend.

If he had lived, of him w^hom I deplore.

This w^ork of thine I blame not, but commend;

This sea in anger, and that dismal shore.

0 'tis a passionate w^ork ! — yet w^ise and well,
Well chosen is the spirit that is here ;

That hulk which labours in the deadly swell,
This rueful sky, this pageantry of fear !

And this huge castle, standing here sublime,

1 love to see the look with which it braves,
Cased in the unfeeling armour of old time,
The lightning, the fierce w^ind, and trampling
w^aves.

Farewell, farewell the heart that lives alone.
Housed in a dream, at distance from the kind!
Such happiness, wherever it be known,
Is to be pitied; for 'tis surely blind.

But welcome fortitude, and patient cheer.
And frequent sights of w^hat is to be borne!
clxxx

Such sights, or worse, as arc before me here.
Not without hope w^c suffer and w^e mourn.

A POET'S EPITAPH.
Jt^AWT thou a statesman in the van
Ofpublic business trained and bred .^
— First learn to love one living man ;
Then may'st thou think upon the dead.

A lawyer art thou .'' — draw^ not nigh !
Go, carry to some fitter place
The keenness of that practised eye,
The hardness of that sallow^ face^

Art thou a man of purple cheer.''
A rosy man, right plump to see i'
Approach; yet. Doctor, not too near,
This grave no cushion is for thee.

Or art thou one of gallant pride,
A soldier and no man of chaff.''
Welcome ! — but lay thy sword aside,
And lean upon a peasant's staff.

Physician art thou i^ — one, all eyes,
Philosopher ! — a fingering slave,
One that w^ould peep and botanise
Upon his mother's grave i*

Wrapt closely in thy sensual fleece,
O turn aside, — and take, I pray.
That he below may rest in peace,
That abject thing, thy soul, aw^ay !
clxxxi

A moralist perchance appears ;
Led, heaven knows how^ ! to this poor sod :
And he has neither eyes nor ears ;
Himself his world, and his ow^n God;

One to whose smooth^rubbed soul can cling
Nor form, nor feeling, great or small ;
A reasoning, self'- sufficing thing.
An intellectual all-in-all !

Shut close the door; press dow^n the latch;
Sleep in thy intellectual crust ;
Nor lose ten tickings of thy w^atch
Near this unprofitable dust.

But who is he, with modest looks.
And clad in homely russet brow^n ^
He murmurs near the running brooks
A music sweeter than their ow^n.

He is retired as noontide dew^,
Or fountain in a noon-day grove;
And you must love him, ere to you
He will seem worthy of your love.

The outw^ard shows of sky and earth,
Of hill and valley, he has viewed ;
And impulses of deeper birth
Have come to him in solitude.

In common things that round us lie

Some random truths he can impart, —

TThe harvest of a quiet eye

That broods and sleeps on his ow^n heart.

clxxxii

But he is weak; both man and boy,
Hath been an idler in the land ;
Contented if he might enjoy
The things Avhich others understand.

— Come hither in thy hour of strength ;
Come, weak as is a breaking wave !
Here stretch thy body at full length;
Or build thy house upon this grave.

clxzxiii

/

HERE ENDS THIS EDITION OF POEMS
BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. CHOSEN
AND EDITED BYT. STURGE MOORE €>
ILLUSTRATED BY WOODCUTS DE-
SIGNED e- ENGRAVED BY T. S. MOORE.
PRINTED AT THE BALLANTYNE
PRESS UNDER THE SUPERVISION
OF CHARLES RICKETTS.

J0 Sold by Hacon €> Rickctts, London,
€3" by John Lane, New York. ^ ^ ^